Patient J
by KayMoon24
Summary: Harleen Quinzel interviews many "Super Criminals" at Arkham Asylum. Monday through Friday. The interviews are sometimes hand written, recorded, or simply creative. Villain Study. Hints at Harley/Joker romance. See if your fav. pops up.
1. Hired

**AN****#****1**: _Case__ File__ Interviews __of__ the__ "Super __Criminal__ Patients".__ Character__ study __for__ all. __Some __are__ fun.__ Some __are__ funny.__ Most,__ however,__ are __just__ disturbing.__  
>Stick <em>_around__ to__ see __who__ pops __up.__Maybe __there's __a__ secret__ plot__ in__ here__ some where__ as __well.__ All __interviews __are__ short,__ less__ than__ four __pages. Thank you, of course to the ever lovely **Charm and Strange** for being the best editor ever._

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><p><em><em>**Day One:**  
><em>October <em>_the __first, __11:44__am_  
><strong>The<strong>** Acceptance ****and**** Interview**** Of**** Harleen**** Quinzel**** Into**** Arkham**** Asylum ****Psychiatry  
>Mental<strong>** status:**Normal. Slightly nervous.

Warden Quincy Sharp stares hard at the tan, beaten file in his hand. He then scans his gray weary eyes over the young, slender blonde that is sitting at his desk across from him. In his left desk drawer, locked by a thick, black, rusty key, is another folder. Inside that folder is a list of 42 names marked out in dark, ruby colored ink. About to be 43. He sinks back low in his large, battered, leather armchair and thinks about what he plans to have for lunch. It's hardly been three minutes since their interview began, and Sharp notices her tremble ever so slightly despite his aloof lack of interest.

She won't last long.

Harleen Quinzel stares defiantly up at the old Warden's—rather unfriendly— face. Her fists clench hard as they rest on her fleshly ironed skirt. So far in her frantic search to actually find a career in the field she graduated in, she'd been rejected from just about every mental health center in all of Gotham City and three times in Jump city, which she internally cringes at when the cold look in Warden Sharp finally focuses back on her.

"Well." His voice is deep, and Harleen snaps her shiny, new heels together like a solider at attention. She knows it's coming. She's going to be rejected _again._She tries to stop a small, sorry sound from escaping her lips. She reaches down for her bag. Her fingers lace around the handle.

"Everything seems to be in order, Miss Quinzel,"

Thop.

Merely a pathetic inch off the dusty wooden floor and Harleen's bag seems to make a meteoric sound in the silence of the large, ancient office. Harleen freezes, forcing her mouth not to drop open, her eyes going very round. Quincy Sharp resists the urge to roll his.

"S-sir," She begins quietly, "I've no experience, beyond school, I—" She might as well confess now. She wanted to be a doctor her whole life long, but, after failing every possibly math course at Gotham University, she sporadically switched to psychology. Like thousands of other, more highly qualified college graduates. Hell, it was a joke around her campus that about 90 percent of students that choose Physiology for their major are slacking their way through school. She wondered briefly how much worse her degree must look knowing that she changed majors _halfway_ through. She might as well wrote "_I __gave__ up_" on every College Attendance interview question.

"Miss Quinzel, if I may ask, where did you learn of our need for your kind of profession here at Arkham Asylum?" Sharp talks over her quite nonchalantly.

"From a flier, hanging…in City Hall," Harleen bites her lip to stop herself from nearly blurting out that she _actually_ found the flier covered in dirt, trampled on, and covered in a light, pink graffiti that slashed through the word _Help_ and had "_**FAILURES**__"_ scribbled in next to _Wanted._ Harleen knocked off the warning however. She needed a job, and she'd take one anywhere she could. Besides, she had to admit to herself (although it was shocking to her at the time that she graduated) that she honestly really, _really_, loved physiology. And what better place to get to know intriguing minds than in Gotham's notorious Arkham Asylum? The city had been so down in the dumps lately…what with Harvey Dent being pulled into custody, and now, sitting at her possible work place, in some woebegone cell…in some small, dark, murky corner of the colossal island.

She likes to try and help. Bring some changes into the city, some good. Some light. And that starts by bring hope into the minds of the city's biggest problems. The crime lords.

Secretly, however, selfishly…she wants to try and _be_ someone. More desperately than she'll ever let on to anyone.

"I see. Good. Good then," Sharp reaches down in a drawer hidden from Harleen's view, and pulls out a large, bulky ink pen. He slides it and a waver paper across from him and towards Harleen. Sharp notes at how easily she signs it—not even bothering to read the fine print of "_We__ regret __to__ in form __you __that__ death,__ along__ with __risk__ of __illness__ and/or __life-crippling __injuries __are __highly__ frequent __here __at__ Arkham...__"_

Squinting at it from his upside-down point of view, he scowls. He needs to find a better typist for handing the darker aspects of his prestigious mental institute, really. Just horrid. This, the paperwork, needs to be immaculate. No wonder other interviewees practically throw themselves at the exit door.

Sharp glances at his watch, which now reads 11:50 am. "You start today, at noon precisely—"

"I'm—I'm hired?" The blonde bubbles the question out meekly. Sharp stares hard at her from inside his black wired glasses. He can practically see his black pen tapping on her name. Mere minutes from now. She'll get two feet down the hall, and scream bloody murder at what she sees—and rush out.

"You sound so surprised my dear, but of course you are." The red ink slowly crossing out her name, he's done it _so_ many times, it's practically carved into his brain now. _They __all __leave.  
><em>  
>It's just a matter of time.<p>

A small squeak seems to escape from the young woman's mouth as well as a large smile. Sharp fights the urge to step back from her; her smile is so _large_, so _genuine_. He scolds himself internally. It's been so long since he's seen a smile here. He's practically afraid of them.

Her thin hand flies across the desk, snatching up his own, shaking it with more strength than the Warden thought possible in such a petite girl. "Oh thank you! Thank you so much!"

Harleen snatches up her bag, trying not to skip immaturely to the door in happiness.

"Oh, yes," She stops in her tracks by Sharp's voice. Her muscles freeze, but she forces herself to look at him.

"Sir?"

"Miss Quinzel, you must understand something before you leave this office. You must understand that if you quit this job within the hour, you will _not_ be paid. Not a single cent. Secondly, if you quit this job within a day, you will _not_ be paid. Thirdly, if you quit this job within a week, you will _not__ be __paid_. Do you understand? So do not bring any court business into affairs here, because _you __will __not__ win._"

Harleen nods bravely, giddy from finally be hired. Why would she ever want to quit?

"Miss Quinzel, if I may speak frankly... The only way I am allowed to pay you now, due to…financial ambiguities, is that when you interview the "Super-Criminals" here at Arkham each week, you must report a truthful fact back to me, told to you, by at least one of them."

Truthful fact? "Sir," Harleen wants to giggle, wants to smile at him, but luckily the gloomy atmosphere keeps a tight neutral look on her face. "You make it seem as if the patients never talk."

"Oh, they talk, my dear." Oh God how they _talk_. He groans internally. "But, you must be the one to find out more about them so we may build a profile. Anything, the smallest detail, but, you must make sure that it is truthful. This information is transmitted to the police, and, if the court of Gotham finds it respectable, you will be paid. As you make progress with each patient, you will be given more freedom. We will require you do tests, puzzles, written interviews, audio-recorded interviews, and whatever else that you see creatively fits each…situation."

Warden Quincy Sharp slowly walks to the door, and holds it open courteously for Harleen. She steps through, and narrowly escapes being hit with the front of the door as it closes behind her. The Warden locks the door again without so much as wishing her good luck.

Harleen manages to find her way to the front desk, and it is there that she is handed a huge clip board, folder full of blank paper, audio-recorder, and a name tag.

A name tag. Her eyes go large, and shimmery under the bright neon lights. The brunette working the front desk simply shifts in her plastic chair, unmoved. Harleen snaps it quickly to her white, sterile, Arkham coordinated blouse.

_Dr. __Quinzel  
>Psychiatrist<em>

She looks down and merrily flips through the files of her patients for Monday, noon, and finds her first interviewee marked on the list. A blurry, coloured snapshot tacked on reveals little about the man, and in place of a name there is only a single letter typed under the photo: J.

_J.__ Patient __J._

She thumbs through Monday further. After that eight minute introductory session it's Patient R. Then C. And finally, P.

J, R, C, P. She thinks herself. Gosh, don't they have names? How cruel…

Harleen takes a deep breath as she moves towards the Extreme Isolation ward. Look out Arkham, she thinks, as she waves cheerfully to other passing guards and psychiatrists.

Here comes Harleen Quinzel.


	2. Monday: Patient J

**_AN#2: _**_Oh wow, thanks to you both that have reviewed so far! It really means a lot for someone who's taking her first shaking steps into the Batman cast. Really. Thanks. Enjoy.__ I'm certainly trying to go for a new look at Harley.__ Thanks** to Charm and Strange** once more._

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><p><strong><em>Monday:<em>**_  
><em>_ October the first, 12:03 pm__  
><em>_Patient J__  
><em>_  
><em>  
>When the black suited guards brought him in, Harleen had a neat wooden table set up, a coffee mug sitting to the right, and her clip board pressed hard to her chest. She arrived early, just a few minutes before, trying to practice breathing and talking evenly out loud to herself—something that probably looked normal to the passing guards and doctors. She still couldn't help that damn tremble in her lips. And, no matter how she held it, she couldn't escape the feeling like she was holding the clipboard over her chest for protection.<p>

_This is silly,_ she chided herself. _You're here to help them!_

The guards practically forced him into the wooden chair before his knees even bent, and before Harleen could even get out one word, the man fell face down onto the rough surface of the table. She shivered at the sound of human flesh smacking into a hard surface. He didn't move. The guards took this moment to lace his silver, tingly handcuffs around the back of the arm. So…no hand writing exercise today, Harleen pouted. She had thought herself so clever too—taking hand-writing analysis classes.

Harleen swallowed to no relief as the guards quietly left the room, the door remaining unlocked. She allowed herself to study him a moment—_Patient seems unresponsive for the first session_. _Possibly ill?_ She quirked over his…unique hair. It was matted, dirty, and slick with sweat, but somehow still smoothed back into thick lines of dark emerald hair. His face was pressed into the table, so she quickly scribbled down _white_ for what she could make out. He seemed to be wearing a three piece suit—muddy pinstriped purple, with a green vest. _Patient probably has just__ been brought in from another crime._ _Mourning defeat? _Her pen scratched out quietly across the paper. She took a deep breath.

_Tok.__  
><em>_  
><em>She stopped, and her eyes widened as she saw the slender man before her briefly raise his head, and then lose all will to hold it up, smacking it back down onto the desk. He repeated this again. And again. _Tok. Tok!_

"My name is Doctor Quinzel, and I shall be your new psychiatrist." Harleen began as brightly as she could. And awkwardly. He didn't seem to be listening in the slightest.

_Tok. _In the short seconds that she could see it,his face remained impassive. His eyes looked dull, staring at nothing but the dark, aching wood of the table. _Tok, tok. _Now that she had spoken, he seemed to be using more force.

"I was hoping we'd begin this session friendly, you understand?" She kept her voice low, and pleasant.

_Tok._"I'd like to begin with you…" She floundered to keep conversation, her eyes rocking up and down with his jerking neck moment.

"Um, please," Harleen bit her lower lip, hesitating. Orders are so bad for first introductions. She didn't want to seem oppressive, like the rest of the staff here. How could they ever expect to get anywhere with these locked up, abused, inmates?...It suddenly was dawning on her though. What if she couldn't make progress? How could she manage her food bill, electric bill, and link to _Gotham Gossip?__  
><em>  
><em>Tok, tok, tok, tok, tok, tok<em>! Patient J seemed to be picking up speed, seemed to be matching her thudding heart, her panicking nerves.

"Please, if you'd just stop doing that—"  
><em><br>__Tok, tok, tok, toktoktok!_He was literally head-butting the desk now. Harleen could see a large, stretching purple bruise beginning to form from the force of blunt impact. He could hurt himself if he kept this up any longer!

"Please! If I am doing something to upset you, you can simply tell me!" Harleen begged, dropping her calm tone. _Tok! _Went Patient J's head. Blood was beginning to slide out his left nostril.

"Please, please stop," she slowly stood up out of her chair. _TOKTOKTOKTOKTOKTOK!_

_"I SAID STOP IT!"_She shrieked, and she slammed her clipboard down on the table, while the coffee cup, rattling from the impact, then tipped over the edge and smashed onto the floor. Patient J slowly lifted up his face to look at her, a smile suddenly there, twisting, and expanding elastically as he showed all of his teeth. His dark, musty, rogue painted lips seeming to fight over which side of his face could smile wider.

His gray eyes sparkled—growing darker, to a hateful black—and then, shifting to a lighter…yellow…no, no…green. A blazing, electric, malicious _green_. _This can't be happening, _Harleen thought, lowing herself back into her seat. He slowly stretched the upper part of his body across the desk, getting as close to her face as he could. She could strongly smell the startling scent of eroding peppermint on his breath, like stale Halloween candy. His hands were still handcuffed behind his back, but he met her eye to eye, and she trembled under his stare. He then threw back his head, and _laughed._

This close to him, Harleen continued to take small, nearly hyperventilating breaths, her fear blocking all thought of moment. The two guards stationed outside swarmed in, and she didn't object when they heaved Patient J out of his seat and took him away. The supposedly eight minute introductory interview had only lasted 130 seconds. And she only had five words written down. Five words that she shakily took down long after the door had closed, and the clock had turned to the next Patient session. Five words he had whispered out, right next to her ear.

_You scream like my mother. _


	3. Monday: Patient R

_**AN#3**: For anyone out there that probably doesn't care at all, yes. I am in love with The Riddler. Thanks again to Charm and Strange._

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><p><em><strong>Monday:<strong>__  
>October<em>_ the__ first,__12:22__pm  
>Patient <em>_R  
>#1 <em>_Introductory__ Interview,__ recorded_

Her hands are shaking too badly for another written interview, and she's clutching the audio recorder so hard she's afraid she might shatter it. She'd stared at the smear of nostril blood left on the table back in the Extreme Isolation wing for far too long. It's stained into her mind. Not that she'd never let anyone else know that. Sets the recorder in the middle of the black, shiny table located in the medical wing. It's odd to interview a patient outside of their cell, but an email informed her of an accident, and so she doesn't question.

Her second patient is another slender man, but this one, thankfully, looks normal enough, and he actually _wants _to talk_._He's properly dressed in regular Arkham inmate-style clothing—loose, sterile baggy pants with an easily breakable, meagerly mended cloth belt and a white short sleeve shirt. Harleen's heart beat quickens when she notices his hands aren't cuffed. A long bandage takes up the length of his forearm the heavy metal would have rested upon. His messy brown hair falls into his eyes, but his light green eyes stare back at Harleen pleasantly. The glass in his wiry glasses frame gives off a shiny sheen from every angle he tilts his head. He honestly looks happy to see her. Harleen presses the dark red record button.

_Click._

(There is a sound of static…the patient shifts back in his seat, crossing a left leg leisurely over his right. When he talks, his tone is cheerful, loquacious, his voice smoothing and running over like a 1920's radio host.)

**Patient**** R**: I'm so _glad_ old Sharpie brought in someone to chat with me today. It gets so _boring_ in here. Why, just today I was writing down the most intriguing question I had been pondering over, minding my own business, mind you, and you know what the guards did when they saw me doing so?

**Harleen**: What is that?

**Patient**** R**: (Brief, low laughter…) They took away my pen.

**Harleen**: Well, I'm very sorry to hear that.

**Patient ****R**: Did you happen to bring in this morning's _Gotham__ Times_ with you, Doctor Quinzel?  
><strong><br>Harleen**: I'm sorry to say that I did not…. Do you like to read the paper?

**Patient**** R**: Reading! Of course, I adored reading as a child. Literature can always be interpreted in so many ways. Always leads to so many questions.

**Harleen**: Was literature your favorite subject as a child?

**Patient ****R**: Oh, gracious no! Do you mean to wound my delicate boyish pride, Doctor? How mediocre to be enthralled by the works of Samuel Clemens and Charles Dickens.

**Harleen**: Then, if I may ask for our fist topic: what _was_ your favorite subject in school?  
><strong><br>Patient**** R**: Art, if I do say so myself.

**Harleen:** Really?

**Patient**** R:** (His eyebrow raises.) You _are_ new here, aren't you? (A chuckle.) You haven't seen my cell. Art. It is the ultimate act of human creation. Like intelligence, not all people have the ability to render masterpieces such as Michelangelo, for example—and no one since him has! So much appreciation for him back in those glorious times! Then, art was appreciated! Reading! THE HUMAN _MIND!_ Art is literally a human taking massive amount of skill, and hours of diligent dedication to show all other non-artistic people genius on paper, what is within the human brain. Genius, in color. Genius, in tongue, in word, in breath.

(Pause.)

But now. Hundreds of years later…cultivation has gone to rack and ruin. People. Stupid, ignorant, normal people. They're like wasted paint brushes. Meant to soak in the muddy washing water of concept and guile. Primary colored lives that amount to nothing but a secondary coated future. Always writing their answers on the wall. There is no bigger picture with them. With _anyone_…What people with _real_ intelligence mean to possess isn't an answer…but a _question_. And…though whatever medium they may use, towards the people of today…they use it to say, for lack of a less vulgar, but more frank term…

(Silence. )

**Harleen: **And what question is that?

**Patient**** R**: (Laughter, harsh, and confident. He brings his hands out in front of him, like he was presenting a master piece.) "_Wh__at__ the __fuck?__"__._

**Harleen**: (Crackle. A short silence.) So, you hold yourself alone in the world, like in regards to the talent of Michelangelo? That…no one with a mind such as yours has existed for what seems to be hundreds of years? And…that, this small group of people that you think you are from is asking a question to society?

**Patient**** R**: Congratulations Doctor. You're minutely raising the bar on the defense that blondes, are indeed, not stupid. Yes, the artistic question is for people to wake up.

( A pause. The sound of the leg of a chair being dragged briefly along the floor. Quickening breathing.) Everyone's so stupid, so naive. (Heavy breathing.) Between you, me, and the lack of confidentiality towards the police of Gotham obviously hearing this later- Why can't people just _think?__  
><em>**  
>Harleen: <strong>I'm sorry to say that our time is nearly up, but that is a very good question that we will come back to tomorrow. (The scratching of a pen is heard.) Did you ever have any struggles in school?

**Patient**** R**: (Sigh.) I fear that I must confess that even I have a ghost, that, even now, I just can't (Pause.) ...give up.

**Harleen:**Would you care to share it with me?

**Patient ****R**: As much as I enjoyed art classes, I could never get my primary colors correct. I always wanted to create them myself. I always, ran out of them, if you will… for more my bigger artistic projects.

**Harleen:** Hm, that's a curious thing to get wrong. Would you mind if I try and get your test scores from your adolescent years to check that?

**Patient**** R**: Only if you'll be so kind as to indulge me in our first riddle together. (The creaking of a chair as the patient leans in.) I do love riddles, Doctor Quinzel.

**Harleen**: Certainly.

**Patient ****R**: What is the color of blood when the injury it leaks out of is made with a green pen?

**Harleen: **Um…(A long pause.) Red?

(There's a soft, fluttering sound of a bandage being neatly lifted up, and then a sound of a shocked gasp in a female tone. There is a deep, black, freshly bleeding wound carved into his forearm in the shape of a question mark.)

**Patient**** R**: Wrong. It's _black._

_Click._


	4. Monday: Patient P

**Monday:**  
><em>October the first, 12:22 pm<br>Patient P_

"Hello…" Harleen began patiently, grateful that her next Patient seemed to radiate a calm, serene grace into the room, "…Patient P. My name is Miss Quinzel. I'm going to be your new psychiatrist."

The cell was beak and cramped with crumbling WANTED posters hanging on the walls and creaking wooden chairs, but it certainly wasn't listless. It burned inside like the fire inside of an ember, and it made Harleen loosen a button on her blouse so that her sweat wouldn't puddle around the collar. The room was filled with smoke—thick, heavily scented cigar smoke. Patient P leaned back easily in his chair, his stocky frame somehow seeming regal and threatening all at once. He had a hooked nose and thick, ash colored hair that curled around his ears. It looked all wrong at the ends though—mashed, like it was used to being covered. He was indeed a very dark, very stolid figure, but there was one thing that leered and gleamed, even while enveloped in the hues of gray and white smoke. Two, small, glittering blue eyes.

The man lifted a hand slowly to his lips, rolling the cigar there, before lifting it out with his tongue and setting it perfectly on his fingers. He then spoke, curling smoke into every word he breathed out.

"Whore."

Harleen blinked. She leaned forward. Surely, she must have heard wrong. "I'm…I'm sorry?"

"I said," Patient P began again with an icy edging tone, "You look like a bleedin' _whore_."

Harleen could feel a rapid pink flush rising to her cheeks. She placed a hand over the first open button of her blouse as he continued.

"Back in my day, you gurls had class, style, dignity! Now you all are nuthin' but'ta buncha whores. Short skirt clad sex dolls that 'appen to breathe. Not worth the effort to even preach to." He took a long, lingering drag, his sharp, beetle blue eyes staring straight through Harleen. Straight through the wall. Maybe she should check what exactly he's smoking…

"Look'it you, bouncin' about all lovely like with your eyeballs full o' sunshine. Don't see that much here. Don't want to see it. Prett'e. See too much o' your kind here. Blonde, blue eyed. Makes me think ol' Sharp is bigger predator than we are," He opened his stiffed, chapped lips into a yellow, tar ridden smile. There was a brief silence where Harleen reached down to pull her skirt further down her legs. She wasn't sure if it was just the obstruction of the smoke now, but suddenly her skirt did seem a little too tight.

Patient P let out a low, greasy cloud of white, gleaming smoke from his mouth, forming large, round 'O's that dissipated into the air—oily, low snickering followed it. "Had a sense o' humor back then, too, if you ask me. That was a joke, dollface. A _joke_." More greasy, patronizing laughter. "But even Joker's ruined that for us. They're dope us on up just for laughin' now. Just for laughin'! Shock us now, just for smilin'! Because a crazy smile ain't nuthin' like a normal smile, apparently, hey? Can you explain to me that one, pennywise?"

"Who is this 'Joker' that you mentioned?" Harleen started at the patient who simply raised his charred eyebrows in surprise. Gruff, smoky laughter eased its way through the fog of the room.

"Oy, they're doin' somethin' new with you all right, penny-walker. Didn't even give ya a name list, hey? That's interest, there. Real interesin'."

"A name list?" Harleen scraped quietly through her folder for Monday, but the chain-smoking man was right. She didn't have a name list. She knew she had thought about names earlier, but, with….the sheer bombardment of eccentrics she had been lucky enough to play into—what did names matter when their true personalities were right here?

He smiled a large, rotting grin. "Gimmie a piece o' paper, Bleachie. I'll pip 'em down right quick for you, maybe. But," He rolled his glossy blue eyes back up from her hands and to her face. "Only if you promise to listen ta what I got to say, yeah?"

Harleen thought this over for a moment, before setting her pen to the floor, and giving it a tap towards her patient. The paper soon followed. What choice did she have? She needed names. And at least at this, she'd get a sample of his handwriting.

"That's a good gurl," He slouched, and he quickly began writing haphazardly across his knee, free hand still twisting a cigar. "So…back to what I was sayin'. Explain laughter to me, Bleachie."

Bleachie? Harleen tried not to scowl, not to tug at hair. There's no _way_ he could have…no way he could have_ known_…

Harleen swallowed but it burned all the way down her throat. "Usually the laughter a Patient remarks to is entirely situational."

"Oh, eh, well, doesn't that make sense," The cigar ashes flickered a bright, blazing orange before fading to black. "Situational. Heh."

"It makes perfect sense," Harleen defended. "Laughter is a normal reaction in anyone, but to laugh when it is appropriate is the goal."

"Laugh appropriately? We're in a' INSANE ASYLUM. How much more appropriate can we get? It's hilarious. This whole thing—you buncha folks—it's the best joke I ever heard! HEY!"

Harleen squeaked and her pen tip sharply veered off the white page, where the sentence – _Patient P, Patient J, laughter reaction—detresSSSSSSSssss—_came to a sharp, scribbled stop.

"I see what ya doin' here, you fithy lil' tart. Tryin' ta pull the wool over my eyes, but I see! I said _listen_ to me! DON'T WRITE WIT' YOUR SLEEZY SECOND PEN! I see his 'ame. Don't you 'are mark me wit' 'em, understand, Bleachie? Don't you dare mark me wit' 'em! 'M nuthin' like 'em. Joker? Nah, you just so green right now. You think all of us are the same, eh? Beaut'ful. Well I'm gonna clue you in: I ain't laughing for the same reason Joker laughs—because he ain't _got _reason!"

"Well, what reason do you laugh for, Patient…?"

"The name's Penguin, sassy-shorts. Mr. P, to you, maybe though. 'N I laugh for the same reason I smoke cigars, steal opera tickets and knife blokes for spats. Because you're all a buncha hypocrites."

Harleen delicate, light eyebrows sharply furrowed. "Hypocrites?"

"Oh yeah, inside o' here? Outside o' there? Everyone, everywhere. Hypocrites. The lot 'o ya."

The Penguin took a long, wheezy breath, before patting his gray, soot marked pockets for a lighter.

"You come in here, all _professional,_ thinking that usin' our first real nice and given us drugs and jackets will somehow make us sane. Well, it's not. It's sick what it is." A lighter was found. A _snipping _sound of it being pressed down into the dim. A bright yellow, licking flame to a long, fancy looking cigarette "Sick."

Harleen remained quiet. Not thinking of a remark to back. She just waited. Just liked he wanted.

"The sign o' side my door says "Super Criminal". Well, if we're "Super" Criminals, then why in the _hell _are you using our names like we _ain't_ 100,000 dollar police hunted _celebrities?_ You see, you master PHDs got it all wrong. You don't break an insane person like you do a normal person. You want inside? Well you gotta be unconventional like. You blow us up from the inside out. It's simple. Like a heist. Like a bank vault. It just takes a good ticking bomb and KA-FREAKIN'-BLOOM, by Jove, you're _outside._ The question is, like you fruits keep sayin' _'But how do I git in?'_ Well…I'll tell you. It ain't by using our first names really pretty, and delvein' into our childhood. Because we wouldn't freakin' dress up in these bitties and parade around if we didn't enjoy who are _now,_compared to then. Hell, I dunno if anyone us even have a then to go back to….if we even remember it."

A harsh cough, the sharp waving of an ash stained hand flickering through the air.

"Anyways, my point is, you head-shrinkers are all the same. Thinkin' you're getting in to the inside by avoiding the outside. Well, a wall doesn't just _disappear_ when someone wants freedom from a bedroom on _fire_. We enjoy who we are, and present who we are outside, first. Maybe, just maybe, if you try lookin' at the outside o' our minds, you'll find a way in, savvy?"

Harleen remained blank, until, finally, subtly, she gave a nod. Just a single, accepting nod. The Penguin smiled a long, dark, smoke filled grin.

"You want to make something out of us, who we are today? The you gotta let go o' what makes us like you. Because we ain't like you. We're not bet'er, not really. But we're not hypocrites. We're real, and we're proud of what we are. So deal with that first. Then, maybe then, you'll find a way inside."

Harleen slowly stood up out of her seating, making for the door. Her introductory meeting was up—but she was more desperate for fresh air than most anything else. But the sudden _fssh _of a flushed out cigarette pinned her heels to the grimy floor.

"But I warn you, Bleachie. Think about it. Think about us. We ain't too pret'y outside. So, don't come cryin' to me when you're trapped in the gore, an' blood, an' pain within. Because you think you're running this mad house. But this place really isn't too bad. The mad house isn't around us, Miss Quinzel. We're only playing parts 'ere, dressing and portrayin' social acceptance, ironically within this place. Its inside that's really, really twisted."

Harleen slowly turned the handled on the door.

"Because what's what you're all really in here for, isn't it? Not for what makes us well. But for what makes us _sick_. But 'm not sick, you whore stockin' blonde. No…I'm not sick. It's you. All of you. So, go on! Git out! Git out before I run outta lights…because then I get into a _really _bad mood." A piece of paper was tossed back towards her.

"It was a pleasure talking to you," Harleen snatched the paper up from the floor; the door opened and slammed shut behind her. Outside, trying not to seem like she was gasping for air, Harleen quickly glanced at the neatly scrawled names lining around her Patient made name sheet. _Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot_ was the first name, eloquently written, with swirling gentle cursive. "…Mr…Penguin."


	5. Monday: Patient S

**AN#3: **_Thank you SO much for everyone that has reviewed so far. I PROMISE that this thing IS headed towards an "updated everyday- / two days" thing. Things just got interestedly busy for me this entire week. Job at Barns N Noble. Driver's license. Bank accounts. The real world is ridiculous. Anyhow, please enjoy. ALSO: I do know that I'm kind of going out of order here- **Croc** IS still next. But, it's Halloween tomorrow, so things got appropriate. This chapter is dedicated to** Storm-Shadows**, for her love of Scarecrow. Let's hope I did him decently for you, doll._

* * *

><p><strong>Monday:<strong>_  
>October the first<em>, _1:00 pm.  
>Patient S- AKA: "Scarecrow"<em>

The first thing Harleen heard when she stepped into the Solitary Confinement ward was music. It was slow, and soft, with a gentle humming of an accordion, violin, saxophone, and the offbeat tapping of drums. She walked slowly now, making the sharp tapping of her heels keep time with the music. She didn't want to disturb anyone here, epically in Solitary Confinement. Facing the constantly emptying ward seemed all the more unnerving. Rotting cells turned to stare and gape at her.

She stood outside her next patient's door, peeking in through the window only when the music seemed to stop. But then she noticed something after waiting for a minute or so. The song was on continuous play from its dented, grey, single speaker stereo. She clutched at the name list in her hand, and rescanned the man's name. She was _fascinated_ by their names now. She had transferred Penguin's name list back over the front desk, and, after receiving a mumbled apology about the lack of information from the bored receptionist; she was handed a new file with actual patient names and back ground information. But it still didn't make her feel any more confident as her fist day went on. The song had now just restarted, and a voice sang:_  
><em>  
><em>Well I always play, Russian Roulette in my head…<em>

_It's seventeen black and twenty-nine red…_

_How far from the gutter,_

_How far from the pew,_

_I'll always remember to forget about you…_

The man singing the song was sending chills down Harleen's spine. He had a voice unlike any musician she had ever heard. It was thick, garbled, like an old, fading radio transmission. Within it, the singer's tones seemed harsh, and sinister, with a moaning loneliness, and nothing at all like the heart-warming blues she was used to on _Gotham FM_. For some reason, it brought Harleen back to Gotham U, where, for a final exam in her sociology class, she was forced to listen to the final heart beats of a failed Russian cosmonaut, lost in space, abandoned by his government from February 2, 1961. The idea was to compose an introspective essay on emotion while interviewing a test patient, all while keeping their own emotions in check, and remaining detached and composed as possible. Before they listened to his silent, solitary death, they had to sign wavers at the door.

_A good man's is hard to find…_

_Only strangers sleep in my bed…_

_My favorite words are good-bye,_

_And my favorite color is red…_

She slowly opened the door, and instantly felt the anxious eyes of the guards on the small of her back as she entered into a shadowy, small cell. She didn't know why two bulky, extremely well-toned grown men were standing a foot from the door at all time, but, considering her own nerves on only her very first day here, she felt it would be wrong to chide them for their preferences,. They had the seniority.

Two plain black chairs were drawn out into the center of the narrow cell. Harleen adjusted her blouse and sat down smoothly, crossing her ankles. She flexed her fingers tentatively over the fresh folder, and opened it up to revel the black, hard, worn out cover of a second one. Pieces of thick, rad masking tape covered the corners. Its spine haphazardly hung together by red coarse wire. She reached inside and slid out her first "Official" Super-Criminal Profile, thankful to finally have a handful of the information she was previously promised.

"Jonathon Crane," Harleen greeted, her eyes still staring down the folder in her lap. She glanced up quickly, only to catch the thin, lanky outline of a tall man. He seemed a bit older than her previous patients, but then again, the dark stubble that ran the length of his mouth and throat only made his entire face seem that much harder, more stressed, and taught. His hair was just as dark, but held damp sheen and curled shortly around the back of his ears, but reminded minimally tosseled—a _differentiation_, she found, for most patients she had found here had a special appreciation for their hair. He didn't smile when she entered. In fact, he didn't make a single facial expression at all. And now he was wasn't even looking at her. He still seemed absorbed in the fifth repeat of that creepy song of his.

The folder she was trying to make tell of was completely covered in ridiculous amounts of scribbles found on every inch of the papers. The handwriting had no set pattern—all from different doctors, Harleen had guessed. The more legible sentences repeated words like, **Don't blink, don't blink, don't blink** that overlapped large, nearly perfect blocked print of a ghastly retelling of a nursery rhyme. **Hush little baby, don't say a word, mamma's gonna kill you a mocking bird. And if that mocking bird won't bleed, mama's gonna go on a killing spree..**

The music slowly faded again, and Patient S lifted a skeletal hand to slowly spin the dial to an even softer volume. Harleen smiled.

"I'm sorry if I am interrupting you, Mr. Crane, but I just wanted to do a brief introductory interview. I am Miss Quinzel. I'm going to be your new psychiatrist. To begin, I have a curious question for you. Your profile says that you used to be a professor of psychology. Would you like to talk about that?"

Harleen tried not to let her eyes wonder to the dark, intricate, sprawling carvings on the wall. The room seemed misty with shadows and indirect light, smelling faintly of chlorine. It left a bitter taste of chemicals in her mouth whenever Harleen breathed out. Only with the occasional changing of a passing guard did a beam of light cause a drawing of a mutilated corpse, or the scribbles of a high flying bat become discerned from her peripheral vision.

"You'll find," The soft, testy voice replied from the shadows, "I do not like to talk about myself."

Harleen bravely smiled and adjusted her hand about the paper, trying not to make it obvious that she was having trouble finding her own professional spot amongst the other ranting drabbles of previous doctors.

"And why do you feel that way?"

The man reclined stiffly in his seat, intently furrowing his brow at the stereo, uncomfortable at the session's interruption of his Monday allowance of music. Soon it would be Joker's turn, and he'd be forced to listen to Frank Sinatra love songs for 24 hours straight. The faster he got this annoyance over with, the faster he'd be alone. He looked disinterested, away from the stereo now.

"There are many degenerates in here that never shut up," He began. "So talking is now one of my many displeasures."

He paused briefly, an impatient scowl passing across his lips, before he took a soft breath in and began in a snapping tone: "I had to listen to Riddler mutilate himself earlier this morning, broad casting his technique and genius while he did it. I listened intently to that pen dig into flesh, hearing the pattering drops of blood splattering like acid rain across his cell floor. His hands dying ruby and onyx. All while he never stopped talking. Never stopping to…appreciate the action. I was trying to read at the time. I can't read while he talks. I, of course, understand it is a physiological need for attention—a quirk of his. I want to _strangle_ him for it. Close his throat up tight. He's nearly as bad as the Joker and his amusement for the world, and _I can't stand it_."

Crane spat out the last four words of his words in vigorous amounts of spite and bitterness. Harleen tried not to frown at the mentioning that it was only the _talking _that bothered Jonathon Crane. _Patient seems to have a constant tone of passive aggression. Pent up. Childhood anger? _She scratched out._  
><em>  
>"So idle, pointless talking disturbs you?" –A glance at Edward Nigma's profile—"Mr. Nigma is the problem? Worse than—" Her eyes slid over the file for the Joker and found no real name printed down, and she couldn't help but feel a shaking jolt of disappointment tap down her spine in regard to her very first patient. "The… Joker, you mentioned?"<p>

_Patient, like Cobblepot—__cross through the name__—Penguin—both regard Patient J in some kind of contempt. Anger, hate…respect, even?  
><em>  
><em>"No!"<em> The man snapped out, nearly growling the word, his shoulders tensing and pulling together, causing the major veins that criss-crossed his lanky body to bulge with pressure and glow with an unnatural purple colour. "Nothing, not a single, repugnant, odious, abominable thing in this entire damn_ planet _is worse than the Joker!"

Harleen nearly shrunk back a little at his sudden furious change in volume, the soft tone still there, just hardened with livid temperament.

"It's miserable. Solitary in our cells, but I can still hear them. Sometimes even see them. I want to kill someone just to get further away. Laughter is always annoying. It's so trivial."

"Perhaps I could put in a request that you be transferred to an empty block?"

Jonathon grimly set his lips to a look of seething indifference once more; the passing rage all but vanished. The way his hard, frigid blue eyes set themselves to hers was curious too. It was the first time he had looked at her. But they burned into her so that she felt like the soft blue of her eyes were melting. It was as if she had just insulted him with her caring suggestion.

"The point, Doctor, is no matter of moving. Or even…being free, really. You find, Miss Quinzel that I do not, even rarely, have decent days— let alone a "good" day. Time is slow and incidental."

"Do you mind telling me of one of your better days?"

There was a brief pause but Crane's posture never once relived it's self from his rim rod straight position. His neck hunched over self-consciously—bright, narrowed eyes cursing the floor.

"It is interesting that they bring you in during the first of October. The…energy that sweeps into the asylum, towards the "spirit" of the Hollow's Eve season tends to excites everyone here."

"Halloween excites you?" Harleen carefully quipped, pen at the ready for an opinion. That should be easy, Harleen woolgathered quickly, nearly fraying her mental thread. He was The Scarecrow. Of course Halloween would be a passion for him!

…Shouldn't it?

"No," He snapped again. "Excitement is juvenile. It is…thrilling, if I am to be forced to find a word. It is…interesting, the celebration of it all. Normal people dressing up as classic folk-tale horrors. Demons, skeletons—"

"Bats?" Offered the blonde, reaching up to gently run her fingers over the deep set groves of a bat sprawled out in full flight.

Crane froze, a strange jump sprang into his knee, the motion forcing his painfully perfect spine to bend down, getting less human, and more feral and lankier in the lackluster light. He slowly looked up at the new doctor.

"Why," his quiet voice resonated with furious strain and clenched fists. "…did you say that?"

Harleen brought her hand back down, holding it front of her face to inspect the dirt and dust. The coal coloured grit blackened her pale flesh and her nose wrinkled. Crane titled his head.

"Are you germaphobic, Miss Quinzel?"

Harleen wiped her hand on her skirt, shaking her head. "No, I just like the clean is all."

Crane titled his head to the opposite side. "Dirt. Decay. That bothers you more than you're letting on. You. Still in your youth. Your body is very slender and toned. I can see muscles in your arm as you flitch away from my walls. You were an athlete. A health "nut". You secretly hate the fat, the sloths. The unclean, and homeless. You dye your hair to stop your conscientious notice of your aging—grey hairs, another birthday, a new strain at the gym. Decay makes you nervous, doesn't it? Because you can't stop it. You can't stop your body demise. Uneasy about filth. Dead bodies, bugs and dust. You're scared of old age, aren't you, doctor?"

"Just as much as you are of _bats_, Mr. Crane," Harleen countered. _Patient is scared of bats._

Jonathon's eyes flickered around the cell, years of memorization telling him exactly where the 1031 bats on the walls exactly were hidden. Within images of wide open jaws, spiders, fangs, whirling mist and crushed glass. He made a small noise in the back of his throat, almost like a mirthless flicker of laughter. And as soon as it came, it was gone like an echo.

" It is not _bats_ that scare me," He scowled, "But merely what they represent."

He then sighed. "You probably would like to wash your hands soon, Doctor Quinzel, as I'd imagine they'll soon start to burn. I draw with skin irritant chemicals from my tinkering of a confiscated chemistry set, when times are particularly dull. Anyhow, it stops people from touching my work."

Harleen's eyes snapped open wide and she quickly called for the guards. Her left hand suddenly started to prickle and ache. The grey cell doors opened and the guards seized the frail, skinny man as Harleen dug through her folder to find a map of the Asylum's bathrooms. Crane merely showed his teeth into some type of hatred filled mockery that could be considered a smile, but certainly was not.

"Ah, don't be afraid, Doctor Quinzel. Your skin will surely be fine…considering you get to some adequate washing supplement in time. After all…"

Harleen stopped shuffling her papers, the tips of her fingers beginning to seethe with chemical heat.

"…there is nothing to fear, but fear, itself."

Harleen was out the door in a heartbeat. The music that followed her was low and practically inaudible, but a final refrain from the song ran through Harleen's head as she sprinted to the washroom.

_Go out to the meadow;_

_Scare off all the crows…_

_It does nothing but rain here,_

_And nothing will grow…_

* * *

><p><em><strong>EAN#5: <strong>I really suggest looking up "Tom Waits- A Good Man's Hard To Find" and listening to it while reading this. Or at least in some point in your day. It just SCREAMED to me like something Crane would really enjoy listening to. Well, if he got "joy" out of anything. Joker would totally enjoy ol' Sinatra, so no one call my shit out yet. He's an old-fashioned kind of classy ;) Thanks to **Adrenaline Write**for being such a sweetie. And thank everyone for the reviews on chapter four as well! Seriously. So much. Maybe review again and let me know what's up?_

**Also**: To save my lovely Editor **Charm and Strange**from editing while she's so busy, *I'm* doing the editing myself- which is scary as hell. So, if you see ANY typeos / grammar errors, just face-palm and sigh out: "Oh KayMoon24. You're such an idiot." And let me know and I'lll fix it as soon as possible. 3

Oh yeah.

**HAPPY HALLOWEEN EVERYONE! HAVE A GREAT NIGHT!**


	6. Monday: Patient C

_**AN#4:**_*Waves exhaustedly* Hey guys...guess who just got back from her first day of job training? I woke up early this morning to all these reviews and favourites and I was just so over-joyed that I just knew I had to update by tonight, so I did. Please enjoy. Croc was hard. The toughest yet, really.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Monday:<strong>__  
>October the first, 3: 38 pm<br>Question and Answer interview #1  
>Patient C- AKA: "Killer Croc"<em>

They had warned her about Killer Croc. It was probably the friendliest remark she had gotten her entire first day. Now she was approaching the stair well to the final upper floor of Solitary Confinement. A whole level, she had learned, created just for her next patient.

NOTES:  
><em><br>The cell is dark. Completely, dark. The kind of unnatural blackness that is used to trap and disorient a human. Or subdue a wild animal._

_Chains—oh God, I can hear the clanking of chains__. Thick chains. Heavy chains. They warned me about him. But. Oh god. I have to get a grip. This is. Professional. Professional. Professional. Oh god.  
><em>

_I was…am lead into the cage of a cell, although it's apparently been expanded horizontally about 20 feet. Bigger than any cell I've ever been in. I can't see my patient. The guards tell me that it—cross through—__he__, he was recently tranquilized so he'd be more__ compilable__. His name is Waylon Jones. His name. That's right Harley, he has a name, dammit. A name. Remember those? Remember what you're here for?_

I can still hear the quiet tinkering of chains, and take a deep breath. The door closes, and I am alone with him.

"Hello Waylon," _I begin quietly, gently. Is my voice shaking? Stop it. Stop it!_ "My name is Doctor Quinzel. Would you be up for chatting with me today?"  
><em><br>There is a low, breathy sound—and the cell floor literally shakes with his weight. There was no supplied picture, and, I realized, that as much as I can't see him, he can't see me. I can't help but pull my feet up, out of my heels, and tuck them underneath me, like he's 20 feet long and is a venomous snake, flicking out a cold, and thin tongue for the heat of my feet. It's pathetic. But he can't see me. He can't see me. I'm not afraid. I'm not afraid._

_He's shifting, chains are cracking against the walls, but it's a slow, deliberate movement. I can't see him, only the stale glint of large, slick cuffs of chains. Every fiber in my being is screaming at me to run in terror._

"Waylon?" _I ask again, trying not to squeak._

"**I can hear you, bitch**." _His voice is nothing like I expect. It's deep, throaty, but it is slow and calm. Very calm, almost sleepy sounding. Patient is aggravated by my patronizing, he can sense my fear. He can sense my fear, but not like an animal. Everyone can sense fear here. I remind myself. Not like an animal. An Animal._

"Waylon, if you do not wish for me to be here, I will leave."  
><em><br>Silence._ "**Talk, then**."  
><em><br>I don't even attempt to smile like I have to my other patients. I don't even know what to say._

"Waylon, usually for my introductory interview, I pick something from a patient's profile and I use that to begin to build a relationship. But, for you, Waylon, I would like to try something different. Would you mind if I try something different?" _I finish the sentence clutching the clipboard so hard that there are red, painful indentions in my palms. I don't know how I even managed talking that long without sounded breathy. Did I sound breathy? Shit. Dammit._

"I would like to try a cognition test."

"**A **_**what**__?"_ _His voice is a guttery choke of words, like he's having trouble getting them out. Oh god. That's right. He thinks he's an animal. Small words. This is horrible. What has society done to him to make him think this way?_

"I say a word, and you say the very first word that pops into your mind."

**"Whatever, bitch."**

COGNITION TEST RESULTS:

Life-_**Blood**__ ( I know he is using animal related words to degrade himself)  
>Death—<em>_**Meat**__ (Love from food, or the only personally affection he's known?)  
>Love—<em>_**Water**__ (Another animalistic connection, I need to try to defer from…)  
>Religion – <em>_**Damnation**_

"Damnation?" _I stop the test there._

_A low, growling sound, almost like…purring?_  
><strong><br>"Do I look like a religious beast, Doc?"**

"Waylon, you are _not_ a beast."**  
><strong>

**"You don't have to be a beast to look like one."**

"So you agree with me?"

**"Is the game over? I'm getting **_**confused**_**."** _Confused is a federal growl now, like the hissing of a rattle snake about to bite._

"I'm sorry Waylon, yes, the—game, is over."

**"Oh. Stupid game. Did you learn anything new about me, Doc?"**

"Waylon, you seem very…opposed…against, me talking. What would you like to talk about?"

**"The first time I ate someone."**

"Waylon—"

**"You wanna hear me mash my jaws, or not, bitch?"  
><strong>_**  
><strong>__I stay silent._

**"I can still smell you. Hear your heart beating. I know you're here. So, I'm gonna talk now. Your heart does funny things when I talk. You ain't scared, eh, Doc?"**

"Waylon," _I doge the question, knowing my heart would give my lie away. Does he have heat vision? Can he see the blood pumping? _"Would you possibly tell me about a time _you_ were scared?"  
><em><br>A huge, horrid sound is grounded into my ears—I shrink in my chair, my toes curling up. Chains are being rattled around. He's having a fit?  
><em>_  
><em>_No. He's __laughing.__  
><em>_**  
><strong>_**"What a riot yous are, Doc. Alright, I'll bite. Heh. The first time I was scared was the first time I…"**

"Yes?"

**"You ain't gonna like this story."  
><strong>  
>"I'm here to listen to what you'd like to talk about Waylon."<p>

**"Promise not to call those meatsacks out there, because you asked for it?"**

_Promise. What an innocent term for a killer to use. Like he honestly trusts me here. It's such a childlike word. Promise. Perhaps that adds to his 'simple' mentality?_

"I wouldn't dream of it."

_There is another silence, the shifting of something heavy, and long…his legs? My eyes cannot adjust properly. Sometimes he's the entire back wall. Sometime it's like he's lying flat. Other times he's in a corner._ _  
><em>_**  
><strong>_**"When I was first time scares…it was when my jaw wasn't working right. It was opening really, really wide. Wider than the largest man in the whole circus, an' well, back then my skin looked okay…just kinda' hard and itchy. Even the ring master looked funny at me—and that was next ta'd **_**bearded lady**_**. It hurt, bad, and the only thing that made it stop was when I bit down on something hard. At first I used food—but it was too soft, so I used wood. But I was beat for breaking the elephant's cage, and chewing up the audiences seats. I was twelve, I think."**

"Oh Waylon," _I began, not even faking sympathy. I really mean it.  
><em>  
><strong>"Shut up, whore!... I heard Penguin called you that. All you humans are the same—but whore's pretty good, heh."<br>**_**  
><strong>__Human. Meatsacks. Disillusion from his own personal identity._

_**"**_**Where was I?...Oh yeah. Yeah. So, you people think that life changes at 16, or 18. You become an adult. No. You're wrong. Life change's at twelve. It was early in the morning one day, and I couldn't sleep 'cause of my mouth, so I went outside and stood around breaking tree branches to chomp. Then, some kid calls me down. So, I goes down, and there he stoods, just oogling at me. So I get mad, but I don't shows it yet, 'cause he might come back with his family or thin' and we'd lose business if I scares him off yet. So I stand there. He then holds out some book to me—it was thick and bond in black with big, golden, sparkly letters, and he's practically yelling about God. I dunno what the hell he was talking about. But that book. It looked so tempting…so hard and solid. I couldn't help myself—my gums were practically bleeding at the idea of it. So I bit it."**  
><em><br>He bit a __Bible._

**"And it broke it half. Practically dissolved in my mouth, and I ended up swallowing some of it. Couldn't help it. Really. But that two-bit kid—he don't like that so much. He starts hollerin' at me even louder—and trusts me, this time he wasn't talkin' 'about no God. He straight out punched me in the face. And well…it was..so close. His hand. Right there…on my lips. I could feel the heat radiating through….and my mouth hurt **_**so **__**much**_**…it happened so fast. My mouth wrapped tight around that warm, meaty fist—the blood was so warm and hot and it felt **_**so good**_**—fresh flesh—but I forgot he wasn't dead or meant to be bit. The top layer of his skin from his hand tore off in my mouth as he pulled back. He started at me wide eyed, and…well, I was so surprised, I swallowed."**  
><em><br>I am speechless._

**"It wasn't delicious and I wasn't suddenly addicted to it like other animals—I know what you're thinkin'. It was sweaty, salty and it fell apart easily with no satisfaction. But, that day…I realized something, Doc."  
><strong>_**  
><strong>__I swallow to no relief. _My_ hands have gone numb._

**"That's all humans really are. They could all see right through me and my last human emotion of being **_**scared,**_** and knew. Knew I was a hungry, hungry, beast. And since then, well, I've been acquiring a taste for 'em."**

_Chains, loud—he's moving—towards me, I can sense it, the hairs on the back of my neck rising—and I throw myself back into my shoes, and make for the door, but I turned around and I finally saw him in the thrown open light of the door. He's 7 and a half feet tall, with flaming, inhumanly red eyes, and a mouth that juts out from his scaly, reptilian face that looked like it could open wider than a Giant White Shark His teeth are nothing but livid, jagged shards of razor wire in his bleeding gums Spittle oozes from the corners of his impossibly wide jaws. He's covered in chains, every inch of him, chaining him to the wall, but he's still moving towards me—he' so ungodly strong. So ungodly human. I scream as I push out the door and slam it shut. Guards lock it into place with over 40 steel locks in a well-practiced, timely fashion, like they had expected me any minute._

_I get back to my office, my legs like jelly, sink into my chair, and finally allow myself to cry. My watery eyes scan over my notes from my session, even I write my actions and feelings now._

_Oh god._

_Oh. God._

* * *

><p><strong>EAN#6<strong>: I'm very sorry for any typeos, it's late, and I'm squinting at this from my journal from wince I wrote this down. So tired. I really hoped you enjoyed. Ivy's next. If anyone ever has an suggestions, or unique ideas for an interview, just drop me a note. Reviews, even the tiniest word, mean the world to me. You guys are so wonderful. Thanks much. Oh yes, and, the bible thing_- _please know I have nothing against religion, Christianity, the Bible, or physical books. But Croc might. ;) I kidd. M' gonna go pass out night. G'night lovelies._  
><em>


	7. Monday: Patient I

_**AN#5: **__Work is making me slow, miserable and busy. I'm very sorry for delays. Please enjoy. I have three interviews ready to go for you guys- get called in to work at 7. I'm so frustrated I could punch a bat. But you guys enjoying my silly interviews this much. God. It makes me so happy. Thank you for making my holidays bright!  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Monday:<em><br>_**_October the first, 4:00 pm__  
>introductory interview #1<br>__Patient I- AKA: Poison Ivy_**_  
><em>**  
>"The <em>only<em> reason I'm even in a good mood today is because of this lovely, precious little baby right here," The dark drawl of a feminine voice spoke. "So I suppose I'll be able to handle you humans for a while…at least."

The fiery-haired woman seemed to speak more to herself than to Harleen as she entered in for their first session. The cell was open, and bare, nothing but a brown blanket on the floor, and the large, golden hue of Arkham Island's sun flooding in from a single window.

The only female patient on her roster, Harleen didn't even need to see the woman's body to know she was breath-taking. The picture that was clipped to her patient file was one of model proportions. Harleen felt the teensiest bit of unprofessional jealously over this woman's body. She was nothing but the best of what Gotham Fashion models would rip each other to shreds for. Harleen tried not to picture the flat, toned stomach, curves hidden beneath the prison patented clothes, and luscious, wild, red hair. The only thing unnaturally sexy about her was her green tinted skin. Harleen prided herself on her athletic frame and natural good looks—but the way this woman stared, even from the portrait of an old, filed photo…she was electric with sensuality.

"Pamela Isley," Harleen greeted as modestly as she could. She had scrubbed practically all of her make up off from her previous crying session, and hadn't thought to apply more. Now she nearly wished she had dumped the whole bag on her face.

Pamela turned to face Harleen with a sharp snap of her neck, a look of annoyance on her face. She was just crooning to her lonely common rose bud that had begun to grown strong enough to peek through the window—although the window itself was only wide enough to hold space for Ivy's narrow, elegant face, or a single hand to reach into the freedom of the outside world. She rolled her eyes stingily.

"Please, honey, it's Ivy. Poison Ivy, but you can just call me Ivy." Her large, gorgeous emerald eyes traced themselves over Harley's figure. "Look at you, all cute and attentive. And who might you be? Yet another tree-killing doctor who's here to waste precious paper on pointless notes about me? Please. Spare me."

Ivy never moved from the window. She simply shifted her weight from hip to hip, her full red lips blossoming and budding with each passing facial expression. Impatience, boredom, tranquility (whenever she fingers ran back over the delicate pink rose's petals).

"My name is Doctor Quinzel. I'm shall be your new psychiatrist." Harleen managed a smile. Already, there was something about this woman that she couldn't quite put her finger on.

"Hm," Ivy pouted, her bottom lip, extending her fingers before she opened her palm, and, to Harleen's amazement, the rose bud at the window opened up as well. It was incredible, Harleen's baby blue eyes widened. _Incredible_. "My last human doctor was a man. I prefer them, honestly," She smiled, her lidded eyes sliding down curiosity. "But…I've missed a woman's touch around here. I'm sure it's something that you and I can warm up too. A woman at least had sensibility to keep a garden. To care, and have compassion for all living things."

She slowly swiveled her head to stare again out the window. Her long, dazzling ruby hair cascading down her back with the motion of waterfall. "Today is a beautiful day, is it not? The gardeners have really pruned up."

Harleen's mind flashed to the sharp, curled, gnarly thorn-bushes and ancient lichen vines that clung to every moist surface on the isle. The small rose before her certainly was pretty—but outside? Even on a good day, she wouldn't even call the grounds particularly _decent._

"It is lovely out," Harleen said agreeably. "Do you have the only cell window in Arkham?"

"Yes," Ivy nodded softly. "It was a lovely surprise, this window, I assure you." She leaned a magnificently gorgeous arm, decorated with the greens and yellows of tiny, wrapped leaves, to the window's frame, and rested her chin upon it. Harleen had to correct her pen from sketching out Ivy's picturesque position back to patient notes.

Harleen looked up again when Ivy sighed. A long, hushing sound like wind through the trees. "Though, it's usually only open when I've been a good girl. It's been closed for _so_ long,"

She held her hand out into the light, and leaned back dramatically, arching her fully exposed back. The shirt had obviously been cut with something—_thorns? _Harleen surmised. Harleen didn't know whether to avert her eyes or make note of the physicality of her patient's actions. "I was starving for sunlight."

"What happened to make the guards close it?" Harleen quirked, tapping the end of the pen against her pale pursed lips.

"Hm," Ivy made an approving noise in the back of her throat and glanced at the rose, as if she was enjoying a private joke between her and the plant. "Well, you see, currently the lazy humans here have wizened up and made earth-friendly choices to their garden team. But before…well," She transitioned her smooth lips into a minx's smirk. "The former gardener placed a horrid, _wooden_ step ladder on a lovely _Atriplex canescens _below this very window. So I killed him."

Harleen tried not to stare quizzically. She never recognized plants by their botanic name. They were nothing but clumps of weeds tended to be grown in miserable patches. She didn't want to breach her patient's comfort zone by walking over the window to look down, but even then she didn't need to see that they were high up.

"Ivy," Harleen began tentatively, slowly phrasing her words as if that would extend their logic to the red-head's brain. "How was the gardener meant to clean the window and wall without the ladder otherwise?"

"Humans are related to primates, aren't they? Couldn't he have," she waved her long, fingers dismissively, her nails shimmering in the light. "I don't know, hung from the building or something?"

"_Two stories _down?"'

"He would have been safer with that fall than trodding on my babies!" Ivy fumed, the toned, hardy muscles of her angular body clenching one by one. "The spores that clung to his pants and clothes, shredding through that stretchy, unnatural, man-woven fiber…saturated with harmful dyes and chemicals. How the seeds burrowed into his skin, popping into the flesh, exploding with life," She was practically elated with the mental image of her beauties as she spoke, taking a human life like revenge for thousands of years of humanoid torture. Her passion died slowly however as the sun sank lower in the evening sky, and she sighed again. "And that's why they closed my window."

_Patient exploits the hormones and sexual nature to dominant towards men. But using her sexual nature…isn't that exploiting her own human structure, the thing she hates in people?_ Harleen's pen scratched quickly across the paper. A rustle of clothing caught her ears. The blonde's hand stopped dead, and she dared herself to look up. The tips of her ears burred. _Correction._ _Towards all homosapiens_, she added. Ivy had begun to strip.

Harleen steeled herself, and pushed her eyes up to find that Ivy had been staring at her, waiting the whole time, like the flame to a moth.

"I'm sorry," Ivy purred through scarlet lips and lidded eyes. "I'm just getting more comfortable. The ridiculous amounts of layers you humans are forced to cover your delicate skin with are practically suffocating to mine."

Harleen pretended to concentrate hard on the lines running down her paper.

"It's maddening," Ivy finished with a flash of white teeth. To Harleen's relief, Ivy had covered most of her body graciously in plant vines and leaves so that only the curves were seen, but not exposed. Ivy stretched out lavishly and leaned against the window, the sun sparkling through her hair.

"You know, honey, I could peg you for a screamer just by large amount of vitamin D glistening in your skin—but a hint of advice? Try to not scream so loud. We could hear you all the way down to the Medical Center. Gave everyone a good laugh—I think even Crane managed a scowl." She took another breath, her eyes slowly trailing down the length her slender arm, her scandalously leaved thigh, before she crossed her ankles with a flare of grace.

"But then again, he kind of gets off to that kind of thing," She quirked her full lips, giving them a _pop _over the word 'off'. She gave a soft huff, tossing her shiny, red ringlets over her left shoulder. "Humans, despicable against sexual nature as well."

Harleen shifted uncomfortably, and used the sun to estimate that the short first meet session was soon to be over. She stood.

"Do I make you uncomfortable, Doctor? If you knew lil' old me, you know I'd never want that." Ivy's look seemed to mock upon the genuine, and Harleen was reminded of a televised interview with Daily Planet reporter Lois Lane, though she had no earthly idea why. Maybe it was the voice.

Harleen paused at the door, a sense of stress all at once knocking at her nerves. She couldn't peg why—but it was certainly entertaining talking to Ivy, in the least. She felt all at once in Gotham Academy over all again—parting the lunch table from her best friend due to the bell. The blonde reached for the door's handle.

"Joker, epically liked it. '_If one can't laugh then they must scream'_, as he always says," Ivy added, carefully examining her nails.

_Joker._

Harleen froze, the whites of her nails creating a gentle clicking sound against the door handle as she twisted to look back, her face locked into priceless shock.

"Joker?" Harleen demanded, trying not to let the urgency colour her inquiry. "You—you talked to Joker? Today?"

Ivy slowly pushed her beautiful emerald eyes up to carelessly glance at the doctor with a knowing look. Her green tinted full lids seemed to flutter with clandestine. "We're often moved around a lot here, but I deal with him, yes. Who wants to know?"

Harleen could feel the tiniest bits of perspiration slide down her neck. It was far, far past the time for the introductory interview—how could she possibly explain this to Sharp? Could she extend an interview if the patient suddenly produced needed clientele information? She clenched her at clipboard. Furthermore, the day was nearly up, and Joker was still the only patient that refused to talk to her—or at least, well, more than five words... She'd need something about him, anything he's said today, or Sharp could remove the most notorious criminal in all of Arkham off the young psychiatrist's list for insubordination. He could be moved to another doctor.

Harleen strode back over to the chair, and sat down purposefully. Ivy's eyes seemed to take a keen, glossy sheen to them. All over again, Harleen felt like she was back in high school, being read like an open book. But she needed this. She needed Joker's words.

"Isn't our session over, Doctor?" Ivy purred, her red, shapely eyebrows rising.

"When did you talk to him today?" Harleen took up the pen in her hand.

Ivy rolled her green eyes, crossing a toned, light green leg over the bare skin of the other. "Let's see, it's about 4:15 now? So…twenty minutes ago or so."

20 minutes ago. 20 minutes ago the Joker had _spoken._

"And what did he say?" Harleen's heart thudded in her chest. Joker. Joker had listened to her scream—and his thoughts—God, what did he think?

Ivy furrowed her bright brows, and pulled her lips into a look of disgust, as if she had just smelled Scarecrow's cell. "Look, honey, I'm not his keeper. If you're so interested, go talk to him yourself."

And already her heart began to sink in her chest. If Ivy couldn't tell her—No, _wouldn't _tell her—she'd have nothing to report back to Sharp. They would take him away. One of the greatest cases in Arkham Island's vast criminal history…and he'd be gone, poof, just like that. Striped from her grasp.

"Oh well, don't you look like a kicked, lifeless doll," Ivy's hard, green eyes seemed to glow from the inside, and Harleen felt it very hard to look away to get the time. It was only when Ivy rolled them did Harleen finally feel she could blink. "Let me guess—he wouldn't talk to you. Weird—that man is nearly as infuriating as Riddler. Always talking. And that comparison alone is saying something here, darling."

"I'm sorry to say that is personal information that I can't—"

"Honey—_Harleen_, right? Mm, no. Harley," She began again, "Harley sounds must better, don't you agree? _Please_. Nothing personal here is sacred. If _you_ know about it, _we_ know about it. Not much to do here but gossip. Of course, I'd much rather being talking to my babies than to these _humans_," she crinkled perfectly angular nose, and began idly twirling her long, red hair on her index finger, her eyes seeming to permeate the window with a sense of devoted longing.

"Since you're new, I'll clue you in just this once. It's one of Joker's greatest pastimes to completely screw with his doctors' minds. They probably just messed up his medication. Usually that man is extremely talkative – I can't imagine a time where I haven't heard a chuckle or some tone of his voice around here. Well, unless he's escaped. The things just get corporative and I'm able to tend to my plants whenever I feel like it. I do so love when he's gone…"

Harleen subtly raised a blonde eyebrow of her own, leaning in a little towards her patient. "Does the Joker bother you, Ivy?"

"Ugh!" Ivy retaliated, her green eyes suddenly blazing with a furious passion. Harleen blinked, taken back. She had seen many faces today with a look of annoyance, or displeasure, but that looked in Ivy's eyes. It was like she practically _loathed_ him more than the entire human race. "_Bother_ me? Bother _me?_ How dare you—"She leaning up to her full height on her long legs.

Harleen pushed her back hard into the chair, nearly pulling away from Ivy. It was as if the woman wasn't referring to the Joker anymore—after all, Ivy was the one that brought Joker's bothersome ways up._ Ivy's diction…it almost seems as if I had insulted her taste in men. Perhaps…a specific man?_

"That man is everything I despise in all of this ungrateful, nature destroying, humanized world! He's just so—so damn hard to control. He's not like other men, oh no, he's from a whole another undiscovered species!"

She bit her bottom lip hard, pausing to collect her thoughts. Harleen took advantage of the moment to interject.

"Control?"

"Not to say that we "Super Criminals" are of a higher class—although we are, of course, but we're not driven just for the primal intent of sex between animals. And Joker, I find, out of all the men here, to be the least sexually driven. Well. Unless he wants it. He's…hard to predict. Hard to control. But I can smell virginity in human's from a mile off—so loud, and obvious; he shows all the signs. But yet…" Ivy gave a sharp shrug of her shoulders, the action carefully weaving her hair.

She sighed, "I truly pity the girl that ever attached herself to his arm." Ivy gave a long, cryptic look over the blonde before, blinking. Harleen suppressed a warm shiver the slid down her spine. Ivy was right. Gossip was the only thing that the "Super Criminals" indulged in here.

"Don't get me started on Riddler, though," She snapped. "He's a virgin if Mother Nature ever did make one."

Harleen's hand flew to her mouth to cover a small smile that crawled its way to her lip muscles. As unprofessionally as it was, Ivy sure seemed to know what she was talking about—and in lesser threatening way conversationally than other patients.

Harleen's eyes suddenly jumped to the rose as it began to grow. No…no, not grow. _Glow_. And pulse. It was continuous, and Ivy hardly seemed to notice until her eyes followed in Harleen's path. It was palpitating like the vision of a heart beating.

"Oh," Ivy gasped alluringly, "You like my beautiful baby? Yes. She's very resourceful. You see, unlike human nature, the plants are connected." She gave a small laugh, "It must have sensed my mental distress and found him. Miles beneath the Joker's cell, the roots have twisted together and creeped through the prison's cracks to permeate the air. The symbiosis of thylakoids and pyruvic acid. What you're looking at now is the Joker's heart beat—though, I could just strangle him from here, by just _thinking _about it. My babies are strong and this old madhouse's floor titles are brittle as aged human bone. I could rip out his voice box with a root, if you like. You did say you needed his voice, after all."

"H-how are you doing that?" Harleen gasped her blue eyes impossibly wide.

Ivy rolled her eyes. "I just explained—but I'll dumb it down for you darling. Whenever the Joker breathes out carbon dioxide, my plants absorb the air, and thus tract his input of breathing and circulation is recorded back to me."

"Stop," Harleen breathed, her own voice jumping up two octaves. His heart beat was getting faster. Like Ivy was enjoying her anxiety and Joker was sensing it with enthusiasm. Oh God—was she doing it now? Attacking him?

"I thought you _wanted_ my help," Ivy countered, her green eyes sparkling.

"Ivy—No. No. Please don't hurt him!" She readjusted. "—don't hurt anyone."

Ivy rolled her eyes with a royal flush of arrogance at the smaller framed blonde. Harleen nearly wrote down how much Ivy's narcissism nearly paralleled Riddler's if she wasn't shaking. She had underestimated Ivy. She really, really had.

"I understand that you're trying to…help. But don't hurt him. I hope you understand that regardless of your physical or verbal threats against him are carried out or not, I have to report your undocumented recognizance through the plants in the Asylum."

Ivy's eyes suddenly flared to focus; she placed her hands on her knees, squeezing them hard until the green skin turned purple as she talked. "Don't take my babies from me—please. Harley. Doctor Quinzel, whatever! Please. Look, I'm sorry, all right? Happy? I didn't plan on doing harm in any way with my plants. This one has just begun to blossom! Don't have them removed. Don't kill my babies!"

"Ivy—Pamela," Harleen's voice lingered sympathetically. _My God, she really does love these flowers._

"I showed you something very special Harleen. _Very _special. And this is how you treat me? Fine. You're a pity—a waste just like these other ignorant apes."

Harleen stood, and slowly made for the door, her eyes ahead of her on the silver knob.

"Pamela, I'll do my best to not have a plant touched. But you can't spy on the other inmates like this."

Ivy huffed, puffing up her chest and crossed one arm over the other. "I certainly hope you do, Harley. Because you shouldn't be making enemies of enemies. I could really…open up to a woman around here. Hm. And here I was, thinking we could've been_ great _friends."

Harleen stopped at the frame of the door, a small twinge of guilt sitting her chest. "I'm your doctor before your friend, Pamela. Never forget that."

"Oh believe me doctor," Poison Ivy mused with a sleek, sedative smile of perfect, square, white teeth. "I won't." 

* * *

><p><em><strong>EAN#7<strong>__: oh my god, you people, and your lovely minds, with your beautiful words and your REVIEWS! Every morning I've woken up smiling because of all of you. Thank you SO much for enjoying, favouriting, and your suggestions. **Two-Face** is up next._

_Sorry to stretch this part out, but I just wanted to throw this out there and all. I do have a story line for this, but I'm completely happy to write specific patient interviews, mini one-shots, or even other story lines within this fic. After all, it IS a villain study. So if you've ever had a particular question or event you'd like me to possibly write a Super-Criminal talking about, I'm all ears. I just love diving into these characters. I think it'd be fun to go outside the computer…box, with this story, and jump in and out with the exploration villains; maybe even have villains discuss events with each other! Of course, I do have Harley Quinn/Joker shenanigans I'm cookin' up. So…what do you all think my inspirational, wonderful readers?_

_P.S. Oh Riddly, why do I** love **__to have everyone despise you?_


	8. Monday: Patient T

**AN#6: **_Thank you all SO much again for the continued support and enjoyment. I'm sorry if Ivy was a little...off quality. Please, I hope I can make up for her with some good ol' fashioned Harvey Freakin' Dent, ladies and gents._**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Monday:<br>**_October the first, 5:30 pm_**  
><strong>_Introductory interview #1_**  
><strong>_Patient T- AKA: Two-Face_

Harleen hurried quickly to her appointment, her lungs blazing from the hardy sprint from the Medical Wing to the "Super Criminal" Penitentiary. As she entered, she tried to pass the pink stain along her cheeks as exasperation from running—but inside, she was burning red with embarrassment. That smirk on Ivy's face as she was leaving haunted her.

Why did she react so hysterically towards Patient J? Why did her heart leap to her throat, her knees bend as if to rush out the door, find him, and squeeze life back into his heart if it dared to stop beating? What would she have honestly done had Ivy made a move? What _could _she have done?

She gave her pretty blond head a shake. She was just over-thinking this. A threat on a patient's life? What doctor wouldn't be concerned? After all, they didn't feed, water and cloth these masterful minds of mayhem to simply have them kill each other off. Maybe it was the way he refused to speak to her—she still cringed at the image of his head to the jagged wood. Perhaps it was the way nearly every criminal spoke of him. Whether with disinterest or hatred—his name was like the key inside the mad house's itself. He was practically being subliminally printed into her mind. But still—she didn't know why, and still had no justification for it, but she couldn't deny the buzzing, scratchy feeling her chest, like a wasp threatening to jab it's stringer into her insides.

If the Joker's heart would have stopped, she felt like it would have been all _her fault.  
><em>  
>Other orange-jump suited inmates perked up and stood in their decimated cells, and slid their grubby fingers through the bars in a weak attempt to touch her, with jolted her out of her thoughts, and forced her to pay attention. When she ignored them, her small nose crinkling in disgust, a man yelled out something very, very rude about her bum, and she broke into a run again, fleeing up the stairs, to finally reach the last cell in the upper floor. The door looked spotless and metal—a single, smooth, golden square read out two ominous words:<p>

**DENT, HARVEY**

_Oh wow,_ Harleen thought as she took a huge, calming breath, her mind taking a compete 180. Had she nearly forgotten_ who_ she had next? She couldn't believe her luck. She gets hired _and _gets to see "_Two-Face" Harvey Dent,_ Gotham's exclusive celebrity on her very first day. Her heart did hand stands in her chest, gripping at her ribs and swinging around and around. She almost felt like _she _was the criminal now, about to be interviewed before the court. He wasn't just known for his crimes now days—he was known for everything he could have been. Gotham's corrupted White Knight. Ever since she had read of his terrifying accident and vicious crimes, she was enthralled—as was all of Gotham, of course—to what went _wrong._And now. With time. She could find out. Her. Rookie doctor Harleen Quinzel. The idea of the all the media attention she'd receive left her breathless.

She did a quick mental analysis of herself, her face flushing, smoothing back her hair. She looked around to make sure she was completely alone before she unclipped the photo of her patient from his file. Unlike the pervious pictures, the black and white photo seemed to be an old head shot from a newspaper headline—_before_ Dent's accident. A small tremble trickled down to her ankles, and she felt weak. Gotham magazine covers were certainly _not_ lying about him—he was _gorgeous._The handsome, young, brightly smiling gentleman radiated out from his past with a valiant, hopeful smile for all of Gotham to see. The information inside the folder, however, told the exact opposite. Harleen quietly swallowed, and felt a cold, guilty rush cast down over her entire body. She folded the picture over, and clipped it back, before stepping inside, Harvey's ghostly smile burned into her mind.

The cell was completely rectangular and wide. Harleen's first thoughts were that maybe, just maybe, Dent's political allies had acquired such luxuries out of sympathy for their fallen comrade—but, whether they even cared anymore or not, it was a terror to his mental state. Starting at the brim of the cell door's frame, the pointed toe of Harleen's heel began the exact staring point to where a thin, narrow line divided the room.

To her right, the room had been painted over a startlingly bright shade of white. The only colour that marred the perfect, pure surface were the hints of shoe scuffs and marks that faded in and out every which way. The right side also consisted of _furniture_. A large black desk stuck out and roughly cut the angular while walls, along with a neatly organized book case. A black chair also matched it. The lights burn heavily above Harleen's head as she glanced up—but, like the line that paralleled it, the lights stopped mid-way, becoming dim and shadowy as they retreated to the opposite ceiling.

The left was the polar and exact opposite from what Harleen could make out. The deep, seeping black that blotted and soured along the walls and floor was madness to see. A Rorschach test gone horribly, horribly wrong. Furious scribbles and bits of white broken wood littered the trashy floor. Smashed tiles, littered books—some even torn cover to cover. There was a strikingly white broken book case, caved in by the tomes of stack books that leaned depressingly on one another. The papers that randomly lay strewn on the floor were covered in the brown, crusty smudges from the steps of dirty shoe heels.

Strangely enough, Harleen nearly didn't even notice her patient. He was sitting in a white chair, exactly planted on the line that ran the length of the room. Harvey was a tall man, with angularly, broad shoulders and a prominent bone structure to his jaw line. He lacked his classic black and white suit, forced into a sterile, off-white, Arkham prisoner clothing.

He waited patiently before speaking, the handsome side of his face picking up and beautifully shining in the bright lights, his blue eye sparkling. Harleen's eyes automatically pulled to gawk at his damaged features, but soon found that from the way he was sitting the shadows covered his left side entirely.

"Miss," he nodded his head respectfully, not a single brown hair falling out of place. "I knew you'd be late." His voice was clear, and moderately loud, rising and articulating with a professional actor's fluency. His voice was also frankly,_ nice_. Like the tone one might use when running into an old friend from the past at a grocery store.

Harleen's spine fought a tremble, her fingers inching for an _autograph,_as silly as the urge sounded. She was so used to hearing his voice ring out in passion over the many scandalous affairs in Gotham's filmed court rooms for years—he must have trained himself to speak that way continuously. Harleen could sense it though—the charisma was still there from those glory days…just, much, much more…sinister.

"Lack of punctuality is very," He paused, metal silently plummeting onto the back of his hand. "Bad."

Harleen's eyes jumped to the metallic sheen of something small being flipped through the air, catching the light only occasionally.

"Harvey Dent, it's such a pleasure to meet you. Yes, I'm very sorry for being late. I'm—"

"I know who you are, Miss Quinzel," Harvey shifted minutely. He didn't offer a chair, so Harleen thought it best to stand.

"So I've heard," Harleen continued, trying to keep the excitedly amused tone out of her voice. _Harvey Dent. __The__ Harvey Dent_. "Word travels fast around here."

"But not you." He deadpanned.

She tried not to let the cool flush fade from her face. "No. Ha, not me." She laughed awkwardly, uncomfortably, finding it hard to hide behind her collective psychiatric attitude. "I'm once again, very sorry for being late Harvey."

The gentle tap of metal to flesh—Harvey looked up. "You're telling the truth."

Harleen titled her head curiously, the question springing to her lips, _the coin told you that?_ but she swallowed it down. The guards talked of Harvey's random and sometimes undetectable swings of a violently furious temper. _Best to keep him as calm as possible._

Harleen took in the elaborate cell designs once again. "Harvey, would you care to tell me about your," She carefully considered her next words. "…inner arrangements?"

"W_hat_ inner arrangements? What can you possibly _mean_, Miss Quinzel?" Once more, Harvey's voice presented its soft sheen of tempting friendliness, his voice low, and full of an actor's conviction. He nearly seemed to have a laugh to his voice; as if Harleen's obvious mentioning of the conditions around them was some secret joke.

Harleen fought to smile, fought to forget the nearly successful campaign for the beloved gentleman murderer. She wanted to blink—to close her eyes just for a second…just to imagine that fallen District Attorney's voice on Gotham FM once more. The handsome right side of his face beamed at her. _Yes_, she caught herself thinking. _He's here_. _I am in the presence of the brilliant Harvey Dent._

His brown hair, soft with stressful silver strays, was combed and gelled back perfectly. She was nearly convinced of the allusion that he was preparing to rise from his chair and head to the court house. He slowly lifted an arm, and motioned to the black chair to the side of him, underneath the black desk.

"Would you care to sit, Miss?"

"Yes," a blue eyed glance to the chair—she carefully watched him rise, a stride to even his walk, as he pulled the chair back. She took several large steps back, and he placed the chair in perfect unison with his own as they faced each other. "Thank you."

"Anything for a lady," Harvey nodded as he returned to his seat, extremely aware of never letting the scarred side of his face show towards the doctor.

Harleen sat smoothly, opening up his file. "So, would you like to begin telling me about your cell—"

_Ping._ Harleen stopped as a sharp chime resounded in her ears. She glanced at Harvey, who's smile seemed suddenly strained upon his face. _Did he…accidentally drop his coin while moving the chair for me?  
><em>  
>She looked down, wondering how one could possibly find anything between the blinding white and engulfing black titles. Even as she rapidly looked for the source of the sound, the contrasting colours mixing within her vision made her dizzy. She met his eyes again, the blue resting there seeming to pale, and stretch into irises that grew as wide as silver dollars<p>

Harleen continued on, pretending to not notice it as a big deal. _Let's see how long the patient can relate rationally without the prop._"So, Harvey, would you like to begin?"

"Yes," He began, his smile pulling back—"I mean," His eyes flickered to hers and then the floor, back to her. "I mean, no."

"No?" 5 seconds.

"No, I—" A hand to his handsome face, his fingers trying to hold his smile together. " I…I can, Miss Quinzel." His hand transferred to clutch the bottom of the chair. "We were talking about, about—" He faltered, his voice slowing down, seeming to take on a slight stutter. 10 seconds.

"Your cell, if you don't mind,"

"If I mind," A nervous laugh. "As if what I mind matters,"

Harleen's brow furrowed. A tiny, wet gleam of perspiration seemed to coat Harvey's neck. 20 seconds. "Of course what you mind matters, Harvey."

A deep breath, a slight shift of his left leg. "Well. I painted my cell white because, because, uh, it was relaxing, I—I guess."

He dropped his line of sight with the doctor, eyes to the floor, furiously scanning. His hand now moved to tap along his knee. 30 seconds.

"Harvey, please try to focus with me here. Could you answer just one question for me? The white and black—you've made a physical point here to not mix them to create grey. Why?"

"Why, yeah, of course, why. Er, that is…" He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing, gilding down the wet sheen of his throat. "Uh…I…do you—do you mind if I just—"

"Harvey? Can you tell me what's wrong?"

"I…I just—I can't. I…I want…but I can't…" His smile cracked, his eye movement picked up speed.

"Harvey?" Harleen leaned forward, trying to recapture her patient's attention. "Harvey?"

He didn't seem to even hear her now.

Suddenly, he lunged toward her in a flash. Harvey threw himself out of his chair animalistically, sending it clacking across black side of the room. His large, surprisingly clean hand groped the ground and Harleen sat still, watching, and trying her best to not pull away as he exposed himself to the light. It chased away the shadows that covered the left side of his body. He was on his knees, hunched over, his line of sight just at Harleen's knees. She quickly pressed her thighs together to recover her skirt, but the effort was in vain. The look in Harvey's panic eyes read out a warning: _Confusion. Helplessness. Lost._

The left side of his face contorted into a gruesome, skeletal grimace of fear. The charred, exposed muscles along the burned skin of his cheek straining to revel all of his bleached stained teeth. The skin there crissed and crossed with painful rips and deep irremovable scars that permanently cut up sections of fleshless bone. The acid attack from years ago seemed to melt what little flesh was savable, giving the skin a crackly, rotting appearance. The right, classy, gorgeously styled brown hair morphed tragically into the startlingly white strains on the left side of his head, sloppy shoved back and ripped out at places with bitten nails.

His left hand, frayed with withered skin, busted blood vessels and blackened by fourth degree burns, sporadically ravened across the white titles like a corpse returning from the dead, hungry for flesh. It found some. The hard, sharp skin of his palm rested against the smooth, silky skin of Harleen's leg. She froze, her eyes going blank, her thoughts scattering like frightened fish. Harvey's eyes were still searching the floor, not even pausing to acknowledge his personal intrusion.

"H-Harvey," Harleen began slowly. "Please let go."

His grip tightened. "Harvey," she could feel his fingers sliding around her calf in a powerful, vice-like hold. "Harvey, listen to me. You can make the decision yourself to let go."

Sweat from his throat dropped silently onto the white tiles, clear and magnifying.

"You can, Harvey." She fought between screaming—_Damn, why didn't I bring the panic button with me?_—to fighting for a connection to her new patient. Was she even allowed to touch them? They certainly couldn't touch her—but yet, here she was, taken straight off guard by Harvey's act. If it even was an act.

_1:20 seconds in, give or take, patient T seems unable to make even the simplest decisions without the coin's aid—frozen, as if he has had a sudden loss of complacency for rational action—that of course explains his escalation in dramatic notion, even before his accident._

_Tch_—she shuddered slightly. His nails were digging in her calf's tender flesh now. The pressure behind each finger was building. She could feel it. _If I didn't try something soon, he could break my leg in sheer distress._

She lifted her captured leg, and she noticed Harvey's eyes narrow. Faster than The Flash, Harvey drove a strong arm beneath her chair, and under her heel was his beloved coin. She listened carefully for the delicate scratching noise of metal being moved into skin. The grip loosened.

"See? There you go Harvey, you found it. And look! You've decided to let go, and you didn't have to flip the coin—"

"STOP _TALKING_!" Harvey bellowed, the horrible, burned half of his face frothing and straining itself open, showing the inside of his mouth, his slick tongue covered in red spittle. His mismatched eyes glared into her with a blaze of sparked rage. "I CAN'T THINK—I CAN'T—_STOP."_

His hands flew to his hair. The fleshed hand to cover his ear, the charred hand to rip at his white, messy hair. His knees trembled, and his pupils imploded themselves to pinpoints. Suddenly, with all his might, he grasped Harleen's leg, forcing her up and throwing her hard towards the cell door, her body snapping backwards like a child's doll. Harleen landed with a clatter, her back digging into the tiles, and she slid to the door's frame. Her eyes were open in shock; her lower back and leg racked in pain.

Harvey started to laugh—but it wasn't loud and amused like Joker's, or condescending like Riddler's. It was a beast all on its own—years, and years of bitterness bursting from his nerves and into his vocal cords. The sound was soft, and grew steadily into a growl, an agonizing moan, and then a bitter, icy voice .

"Of course, I said 'anything for a lady', but, all while I was down there, all I saw was your red panties. You don't even have the common decency to close your legs. You're an _insult_ to my vision, and _insult_ to the doctors here. I can _see_ right through you, Miss," He gruffed out the term, his mouth twitching, and the left facial wound's sliding open widener. "And frankly, I've wanted to toss you across this Hell hole of a room since the moment you walked in. I want to _shatter_ your_ face_ against these walls until your idiotic skull _cracks_ open and your skin matches the colour of your red _tastes_."

"You know what red does to white? Miss Quinzel? It taints it—once red is placed upon a white surface, it_ never_ comes out. Sure, you can hide it," He stepped towards her with each word, and Harleen shuffled along the floor, pressing herself against the door frame. "But it's always there. Like a fucking scar. It never heals…and those who know it's there always_, always,_sense it."

His hand gripped at her blouse—the buttons ripped, he easily raised her up, and he pinned her to the wall. He roughly brought her hands above her head. Her wrists were imprisoned in his free large hand.

"Look at you. You're so pathetic. So weak. I can smell them on you—Penguin's cigar, Riddler's inconsequence, Ivy's perfume, Scarecrow's chemicals—you see _them_ as criminals. But you don't see me, as one, do you Miss Quinzel? You _pity_ me. But it's more than that. You pity poor, disgraced Harvey Dent."

Harleen's bottom lip quivered as she stared in horror, her entire field of vision filled with his blacked, corpse of a face. His grip tighten and she whimpered. He pressed his chest against hers, nearly crushing her into the wall. She could feel his heart hammering hard against his ribs—like it's power alone could burst out of his chest and smash her to bits.

"Well, we've got news for you, Quinzel. He doesn't need your pity," He growled, so close to her ear. She closed her eyes, the image of the handsome picture she had held just 10 minutes before burning, disintegrating to dust in her mind.

"…Because Harvey Dent is _dead_," he whispered. She then felt the surface on her back give way, and the door was pushed open—and Two-Face shoved Harleen out of his cell, and closed the door. The two guards at the post before her simply stared at the mess of the new doctor. Her blonde hair frizzled out, her missing buttons.

The younger guard spoke first, bits of sandwich flying from his mouth. "Oh my god! Oh my _God_—I—we, we are so sorry—Oh my god, are you okay? We were on dinner break, and we just—Oh my _god_!"

"I'm fine," Harleen said slowly, and she slipped on her heels once again. "I'm…I'm fine. I just—" her voice cracked. She stopped, and squared her shoulders at the two men. "Take me to the dinner hall please. I need to talk to Sharp. Please. Just take me to Sharp. I…I need to know when my clock-out time is."  
><strong><br>**

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><p><strong>EAN#8:<strong> _Whew. I love me some Harvey Dent. Ya'all enjoy? He's a blast at parties, I bet. So. Any idea who's next? I'm up for requests, or I'll just mosey along my own lil' ideas…I'm sorry about these things gettin' longer than four pages. I guess I'm just finding more to say. Or maybe I'm deluding the impact. Oh no. Someone stop me! ;-;  
><em>


	9. Monday Ends With A Bat

**AN#7:** _Major thanks to everyone that's reviewed so far. You all make me so very happy. I'm very sorry for the delay on this chapter—I'm slowly striking out plot structure, and work is KILLING ME. Joker is up soon, I promise. ALSO: Anyone really enjoy my work? Well I got someone WAY BETTAH than lil' old me. Check out __**Neetyneet's story: "Arkham Legacy"**__—it's a beauty, and I think anyone who likes my stuff will fall in love with hers._

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><p><strong>Monday:<strong>  
>Dinning Hall—Staff Only<br>_October the first, 6:00 pm_

The guards flanked her at either side—the youngest still whimpering apologizes into her left ear—Harleen stalked into the dining hall. It was a large, spacious hall that had been ripped from old Amadeus's mansion and compacted into the side of the visitor's center, far in the back. The staff was unnervingly close nit—niches of doctors sitting and standing around shoulder to shoulder. The flickering, over-head chandelier left an eerie glow on their pale coats. Harleen stumbled at the door-less entry way, sweat stained blonde strains slipping into her eyes. She looked down nervously.

"Doctor Quinzel," the youngest guard muttered her name again, "once more ma'am, I am so sorry—"

"It's fine." Harleen snapped, her eyes still on her shoes. She then slowly straightened up, and turned back to the guard. _Don't be rude, Harley_. She chided herself. _It's not his fault security is tediously loose in some places and obnoxiously tight in others. No wonder these masterminded fiends slide through the cracks. It's not his fault. He doesn't know what you've been through today. He'll never know._

She placed a hand on his shoulder, and smiled reassuringly. "I'm going to talk with Sharp now. You can leave." Her hand trembled ever so slightly on his grouchy blue uniform. "But don't worry. It's not about you. This'll be our little secret. Just…be more aware next time."

"Whatevers you say, ma'am," The young man nodded, and he and his friend left back to their posts, the warmth of their bodies absent from her sides suddenly left Harleen feeling extremely exposed. Not a single doctor turned to look at her; no one welcomed her in, nor asked her how her first day was, or even asked her name. She took a deep breath and continued in, feeling as if invisibly eyes were judging her every step.

_Step_, Harleen fretted. She looked down to find that in just one day her beautiful heels were covered in dirt. Bits of moss and worn thin at the heels. _Surely there has to be a better way around this miserable institution,_she thought, biting the side of her cheek.

She approached a doctor, standing alone over a bowl of ice water, plastic cups stacked up high and acute to the wall. He had dark shadows under his eyes, and sandy blond hair.

"Hi, I'm Harleen—" She began. But the man made a sound of disgruntled surprise, and his wide, brown eyed stared alarmingly at her. "But you can just call me Harley," She squeaked out timidly.

"You're new. Sharp monitors us from other there." A long, jacketed arm was raised in the direction behind Harleen.

"Oh," Harleen twisted to look behind her, and back at the doctor. "Thanks…this place is confusing. But, it's very nice to meet you." She forced her small hand into his.

The doctor pulled her into a weak handshake before letting go just a fast. "Don't mention it. You too. Look, I'm—I'm late for my break. I gotta go."

He turned without even so much as a good-bye, and Harleen blinked after him. …Was it ironic for her to feel more accepted by her lunatic patients than her co-workers?

But there was still the matter of Sharp.

"Mister Sharp," Harleen clicked over as fast as her legs could carry her, "I've gotten my first day file of reports for you, sir, and I just wanted to ask when I have my dinner break?"

Sharp stared tiredly at her, his framed eyes squinting into obscurity at her face, as if he didn't recognize her. Harleen swallowed as she held out her case files.

"Ah! Kimberly, yes. Very good. I hope you find your first day…understandable. You get a 30 minute break to eat around this time, so that's taken care of. However, doctors are permitted to leave at any time after that. Just be sure to check in at the desk before you do. The Asylum closes early during this time of year so I can re-check the security shifts. As you've probably noticed, they've been a little sporadic. Less chaos, you understand. But you, of course, will report back here tomorrow at 7:00 am."

"I'm_ Harleen_, sir. Harleen Quinzel?" Harleen propped sweetly as she could. "Thank you. I…I'm sure I'll have further questions as my time here goes on. Oh, but sure. Shall I report to you my first day's findings?"

Sharp scowled for a moment, and then picked up a plastic cup that had been sitting next to the hands of a doctor that was resting his head on his arms. He took a lingering sip, and then curled his fingers harshly, crushing the cup and tossing the damp, plastic ball at the doctor's head.

"I don't pay you to _sleep_, boy." The Warden's quiet warning vibrated with massive undertones of threat.

The doctor shot up immediately, brown hair whipping as he rose from the table and into the safety of the Medical Staff group. A few shadowed faces turned to glare at Sharp, and Harleen felt her face flush just for being near their boss. Sharp glowered back at them. Silently turned heads faced inward to their partners, and a large hand was brought up to pitch the bridge of his nose.

"Actually, I find we can discuss things better in my office. I imagine you remember the way there. Please return to it and wait for me. I'll be along shortly."

"Sir," Harleen nodded, and tried to hide her own frown as she marched the long distance back, her shoulders squared like a dejected child.

_**~*~ Later…~*~**_

Being alone in Sharp's office was nearly as unnerving as being with Sharp in his office, Harleen decided. There was a stiff sort of peacefulness to his presence being gone, but the air seemed to wrap around her suffocatingly in such a wide, open, circular space. She crossed her arms and tried to warm up, noticing that Sharp's only window was opened, and poured the only light in the whole room. The same silver light skimmed over his desk, and something reflected it back.

She approached the desk. The thing that was shimmering and laminated caught her eye further. Laying her own file on the desk, she glanced at the door discreetly, and leaned against the wide wooden desk, sliding her fingers over papers, smooth round pens, ink containers, and stamps to run into something thin and sharp. Further blind inspection told Harleen's senses that she was touching the pointed edge of a corner to something. A hand lifted up and over the cover. Her eyes widened to find raised letters. Slowly she crept a hand over each indent.  
><em><br>J…A…C…K…_

N…A…P...I...E…R…

She froze. _Who is this? A new patient?_ Her fingers inched with curiosity, and a tingle ran down her back. Was it a hell-raising, heart-stopping new case—and she, Harleen, could be the secret insider to know…the only one to know. She would show these two-bit quacks outside! She didn't need them!

But no—no, she shouldn't look. _I'm so new—My God, it's my very first day and I'm already threatening to sneak around the Warden's Office for Christ sake!_ Her hands began to sweat nervously. She slowly pushed the cover around in a rotating circle. It was perfectly square, it's colour cooling, misty white with bold pushed lettering. Still. She didn't have to read the file. She could be a good girl and just touch it. Right?

She went to run her finger down its spine when the whole massive file suddenly topped to the floor with a soft whack.

Oopsies. Now she just _had_ to pick it up. What would to Sharp say to a dirty office? Though, it was so damp and creepily shadowed, she imagined that he'd never notice. She bent down, leaning the hard-covered file against her chest, and cradled it up like a newborn infant. She wanted to laugh at herself—_I suppose my work is going to be like my baby now._ She mused. My _entire life..._

She glanced back to the large, oak door, and let a minx like smile slide across her face—though it felt funny to her. Like she hadn't smiled in a very, very long time. Had she really only been here a _day?_  
><em><br>Sharp is too much of a tight-wadded hawk to not sweep every inch of this place before coming back here. I probably have all night. And…just flipping through never hurt anyone._ After all, she's just a doctor out for the well-fare of her patients. New, or old.

Digging her fingers discreetly into the middle of the clump of pages, she pulled the file open, and came face to face with sharp, withered looking photographs that had been blown up to fit the entire length of the pages that contained them. She moved her fingers carefully across the large, dim photographs in the dark, holding the file close to her chest, just under to heart. Harleen nearly mistook them for all for being printed in black and white, when one colour kept furiously bombarding her vision, she couldn't deny it.

Bright, vivid shades of red seemed to saturate the ink. Maroon, brick, rose…blood red. The entire photo seemed to be of an old, grey, cold looking warehouse. That was where she nearly assumed it to be black and white; it was so gloomy, so lonely and decrepit. But something was tossed across its floor. Something thin and frail looking. It was a body.

Harleen's heart skipped a beat, and she pulled the pages as close to her face as she could manage. A _child's _body. A piece of black tape covered the boy's face. Harleen titled her head, and slowly lifted a thumb to remove it…

"You shouldn't be in here." A quiet, disapproving tone clipped from the darkness.

Harleen gasped, twisting around in her heels, a hand to her chest.

"Who's there?"

"You're holding Joker's file. Those are crime scene photos from years ago. _Confidential _photographs. " The voice spoke again—male, deep, and…was it coming from the ceiling? The floor? Harleen tried not to spin around in frenzy.

"This is…_Joker's _file?" The weight in her arms felt so much heavier now. She remembered the name imprinted on it. "But," She traced the letters with her index finger protectively. " But it has a name."

The moonlight drifting lazily from the Sharp's window caught the ending flourish of something long and dark. Harleen froze.

_"Batman?" _No. It couldn't be him. Not now. No. "What are you doing here?"

"If you don't want to be caught with a confiscated file on your first day, I suggest you lower your voice, doctor. But to answer your question: Joker doesn't have a name. And to answer your second: Sharp asks me to check into his office nightly when security changes are going on. I noticed an unidentified person, and came in to find you. However, Sharp informed me of a new doctor's presence, so you shouldn't be afraid. At least, you shouldn't be as long as I don't catch you reading classified notes that aren't yours ever again."

She scanned the darkness, her blue eyes only catching narrow bits of a hood…something solid, and thick…she then glanced down at the file in her hands.

"Considering that you're the Joker's newest psychiatrist, I'll inform you what it is you're holding. You are holding in your hands the entity of any documented evidence against the Joker, about the Joker, or otherwise speculated. As you can tell, it's extremely out of date. Sharp keeps it anyways for reference."

"Jack…Napier," She whispered the name. It seemed to expand in her mouth, twist, and slid back down her throat like a secret.

"No. That's not it. Not really." The Batman's voice was impersonal, calculating. Nothing like she really ever imagined it to be. Maybe a growl or something…inhuman, from the stories on _Gotham Nighty_, or the _Daily_ _Tribune_. Of course, he had heard her. She nearly blushed at the thought of being heard whispering the _Joker's_ name of all things, but he continued on.

"It's a kind of "John Doe" type of alias for him. We've caught him under the name once or twice—but no man named "Jack Napier" has ever existed."

"Well…I suppose that makes sense," Harleen opened the folder thoughtfully, causally, hiding all traces of her insides practically spasming for a peek. "I've noticed he doesn't have any figure prints like the other "Super Criminals"."

"That's because he doesn't have any. He's burned them off, or he lost them in some chemical plant accident. The story always changes with Joker."

Harleen flipped through the pages faster. There was so many—much thicker than many of the other patients' files. Psychiatric documents, lists of myriad mental illnesses, court cases, and 72 page murder wrap—and women. Names of women. Two common names of unusual particularity seemed to resonated out from the grim pages and sparkle to Harleen's eye. They were highlighted, crossed through, highlighted a second time, circled and picked over many times with what seemed to be hundreds of different pens. Harleen stopped, and slid a carefully bitten nail up to the first name:

_Jeannie_

A nail to the second name:

_Rebecca Brown_

"You've read his file?" Harleen intoned.

A low, affirmative sound echoed from the shadows. "More times than I care to remember."

"Then you tell me. Who are these women?"

Batman titled his head slightly at the tone in the doctor's voice. She shoved the book forward and out towards the hero, as if they could both possibly read it at such a distance and in the dark, but Batman shifted forward anyways by an inch. He knew exactly what she was talking about. But why talk about it? For the hundreds of changing pages in Joker's files, his ridiculously fake and crocodile tears over his delusional past "relationships" certainly weren't helping anything.

"Like Jack Napier, we could never really approve or deny their existence. They could have existed once. Or they could be nothing more than a mad man's ramblings into his own twisted humanity in attempt to latch some poor compassionate person through a sadistic antedote. But if they did ever exist, more than likely, they are dead."

Batman stated the word 'dead' like a fact. Even in his ironic word choice of ambiguous fates for the two women, he believed them to be dead. His tone seemed to shed light on the Joker for a moment, but Harleen could hear the condescension of it all. It wasn't a matter of theory to him—real, these women were dead, and if not, then fictional characters could die as well, forever trapped in the imaginary fleets of scattered sanity that was engulfed by the fathomless insanity that Joker lived by.

Harleen's heart did a drop in her chest, and she found herself turning back once more to the bloody scene of the child.

"Has...there been no one that's come into contact with Joker and lived?"

"No method, or pattern, if that's what you mean. It's all at random, or rancid."

"I mean intimately. To try to understand where his humanity stopped. Are you're suggesting that none of my patients can love? If Joker mentioned these women, they must mean something."

A mirthless sound from the darkness. Harleen couldn't put her finger on what it exactly was. A laugh? A scoff? The flap of a bat's wing from the world just beyond the open window? It was so faint.

"Joker doesn't love anyone—except maybe himself."

Harleen narrowed her eyes and ignored the contempt in tall figure's voice.

"That's a start, anyway. I believe that all of my patients have a long way to go for rehabilitation, but they've got to start somewhere. And…it says here that Joker's only ever mentioned these names under heavy doses of fused medication." Harleen's mind zeroed in. _Slip ups? From The Joker?  
><em>  
>No response.<p>

"Who took these pictures? They don't look like a crime scene had been set up yet."

"There was wasn't ever any crime scene set up. Joker took them."

Harleen's eyes widened and she stared for a long minute at each one. The blood in the photos was ghastly, mixed and blotted like a disturbing Rorschach test along the floor. She could imagine it; Joker's long, white fingers snapping each shot. It explained the fuzzy edges and rapidness of the angle. It was like he was too excited, or passionate about his horrible actions that he couldn't document it fast enough. There's no way anyone could have survived such traumatic blood loss, let alone a child. But she had to ask.

"And…the boy?"

The Dark Knight's frame seemed to grow even more statuesque, his jaw locked hard. The breeze through the window seemed to end on a low, faint howl. Harleen fought not to shiver in the sudden chill.

"I understand the work you are trying to perform on these grotesque and fragile personas of the other "Super Criminals". But The Joker is a monster, Miss Quinzel." He murmured, his fist bawling slowly and tightening in a vice. "Do not forget that."

She tore her eyes from the pictures, and snapped the document shut, unable to comprehend any more of the Joker's insidious deeds for one night. The darkness stirred at the sound. She placed it back on the desk inconspicuously as she could. Then it hit her. Here she was with Batman. She should ask him. She should ask him about the growing feeling in her chest that had made her cry so miserably this afternoon. He's dealt with them for years—surely, he would know.  
><em><br>Is it all pointless?_

"Batman, can—" Harleen stopped, her throat going dry at Batman's scowl, the menacing blackness that covered up his skin. It was like she was talking to abyss of an open closet beckoning her in like a skeleton to be trapped, or a monster that was trying to swallow her whole. "Can I ask you a question?"

The moonlight speckled the cloth and thick cape, and Harleen threw out a hand quickly, realizing that he was retreating. "No, please, I'm not asking about you! It's—it's about my patients!"

The moonlight was still once more. Rips of sharp white curves illuminated Batman's cowl once more. He was still for now. Silence. Harleen tried to keep eye contact as best she could—but that was awfully hard since she couldn't see his eyes. Did he even have eyes? _No, he's a man, stop it Harleen_, she scolded.

"Do you think there's hope? Hope for them, I mean. For them to eventually be," She bit her lip. "…normal?"

"Normalcy is a term that is easily defined, but not always what is right."

Harleen paused, debating her answer. "So then…you agree? I mean, you've been with these crazies for so long. I bet you'd have a lot to say—"

"Look," The voice seemed to soften as he cut her off, if only slightly. Harleen slowly raised her eyes to the imposing darkness. "I don't do this often—but here. Catch."

Something small and compact flew from the shadows and sparkled suddenly crossed the following moonlight—Harleen stumbled forward, narrowly gasping the object before it could smash into the dusty wooden floor. She ran her thumbs over its slide. It was light, and pointy—in the shape of a bat. It hummed gently in her hands. Confused, Harleen looked back up.

"Wh-what is this?"

"Your report notified Joker acting stranger than usual. If Joker threatens to put the doctors or Gotham in danger, press the center of it. I'll be there."

Anger suddenly flared direct and hot inside of her chest. "You… _read_ my files?"

She whirled around, her eyes to the desk. There it was her file! But..he had read it? Already? How? Was he behind her and she never knew it? How? How did he even…

She blinked, and said it again. "You read my files? Those confidential files that only Warren Sharp and Police Chief Jim Gordon are allowed to see? _You?"_

The room was completely silent. She couldn't even hear him breathe. If he even _did_ breathe. Jack Napier's file was old and out dated, as Batman had said. Perhaps then he was allowed to look. But new files? Fresh insights? _Her _files?

"Miss Quinzel," Batman said calmly, the cold, emotionless voice tried to wash over her soothingly. _Order and control_, she breathed in the idea of Batman, _safety and heroic. He's here to help. Don't be annoyed. Don't be annoyed._

Harleen clinched her fists, and raised up the bat shaped object. It hurt when she pressed her skin into it. Sharp edges without any give._  
><em>  
>"Why? Why would you give this to me?" <em>Why would you read my files?<em>

She felt a sharp pang in her chest that was dark and wet. It trickled down her ribs. No one knew much about Batman—not even the police that so desperately needed him. And here he was, trodding around the Asylum, intimidating all these already highly stressed people—to what end? _What would he know about mental health? He's obviously a very disturbed man that dresses up like a freaking bat to go out at night and punch people in the face. Reading highly classified files like he owns the place—he just beats the poor patients in here and tosses 'em to us without so much as backwards glance. What would he know about these poor patients? What would he care?  
><em>  
>The dark sleek cowl turned from its straight focus and coasted it's direction towards the open window. The flexing of strong chin to the moon. Harleen's blonde brows pitched themselves higher. "There's doctors here that have been attacked twenty times over, have been here for decades, but you gave this to me. On my first day! Why?"<p>

_"Well?" _She meant to sound stubborn, but her voice wavered.

"You looked tired, Miss Quinzel. Go home. Get some sleep. From what Sharp says, you have a tasking day ahead of you."

Harleen lowered her gaze, the fire in her chest dimming. _I'm lucky he's even said two words to me. And now he's offering me…what? Bat protection?_She nodded, the blue in her eyes soft in the moonlight. She ran the palm of her hand across Patient's J's name one last time before folding it over. She narrowed her eyes in the darkness, A sigh. She might as well admit defeat now. And she was pretty tired. "…You're right. And Batman—"

She turned to find the large, starched silver office floor around her completely empty. She walked to the window, and carefully stuck her head out to gaze at the rooftop of the mansion. There was nothing there but floating, formless shadows of the lazy clouds passing over the moon, and the forever twinkling lights of Gotham city from across the impervious gush of water against the shore rocks.

"Hey _B-man! _It's awfully rude to leave a woman's side when she's talking to you!" She called into the wind, strands of her blonde air whipping across her cheeks. "But thank you!"

From the cliffs that ached high into the starless sky, Batman's large frame loomed down with vigilant eyes at Sharp's window. The slender figure had retreated. He narrowed his eyes slowly, and relaxed his brow. Quinzel certainly was right about being…different in her approach. No one had ever _yelled _after him like that. His lips twitched for a second, and Batman set his jaw once more. Maybe there didn't need to be hope left in the continuously crumbling isle, or its patients.

There was something niggling in the back of Bruce's mind as he spread his cape up and out against the rough night air. Something that his mother had told him a very long time ago…Something like how hope is passed from person to person—not something someone can keep forever, or is born with. He lied when he agreed with his mother back then—if anything just to please her, for her to say _That's a good boy, Bruce,_and to trail her fingers lovingly through his hair. He wasn't a good liar back then, but even him being a damned good one now still didn't change that fact that he had lied Doctor Quinzel.

He never had much hope for the villains of Gotham. Years of contempt and bitterness and failure at his own hands had taught him that. In truth, Bruce in general wasn't a hopeful person when it came down to his life and his enemies. But the principles, his values, the people of Gotham, his city—he believes in. But the Arkham Asylum never was a place of healing. Anyone who dug far enough back in the Gotham Library to find its owner's origin story knew that. It was a place to lock the hopeless away without a second glance. Even as a young boy, Bruce believed that. The only time that belief had wavered was when he was a child, and, if while watching television with his father, an escapee from Arkham running wild in the streets would interrupt their program, his father would always mutter under his breath and sigh, _such a_ _shame_…leaving young Bruce to always question which was more shameful: the crime, or the intendant.

He lurched from the edge of the cliff, hitting the air with a _whoosh_, and glided smoothly out into the water.

Maybe. And it was a long maybe. But, just maybe, this quirky young doctor was about to make him believe it.

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><p><em><strong>EAN# 9: <strong>__Once more thanks for the suggestions and reviews. I promise I will write them all. I'm sorry this is so long, and so late, and if I haven't thanked everyone for the reviews yet. I will! It's just... work is killing my time to do…well…anything. End o' Monday. Let's see what Tuesday brings us...hopefully I won't fall too far down the rabbit's hole…_

**Happy Thanksgiving everyone!**


	10. Tuesday: Patient J

_**AN#7:**__It's Tuesday for Tuesday! Thanks for all the love once more! I tried to write thank you notes back, but I kept getting an error code. I'm sorry! ""_

Anyone up for Poker? I hear tonight, it's Joker's Wild…

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><p><strong>Tuesday:<strong>  
>Commerce Room: 5.009. Block S.<br>October 2, 7:45 am  
>Patient J—Now classified as "Joker"<p>

He was already seated when Harleen arrived back from the Dining Hall, but she refused to even allow him to get the slightest glimpse of her until his session had to begin.

Her first interview of the morning was in a new area today; something called the "Commerce Room". Harleen had stood in it about 30 minutes before, taking in the tight, sobering periwinkle blue wall paint that conjoined to a few empty cells and four different doors. A dull gleam had caught her eye, and she turned to find a busted VCR with a single, battered cord that connected it to the screen of a wide screen television set_. A T.V? Here? Seriously?_ She titled her head as she glanced behind it to find it lacked a cable. Further inspection revealed that tittering precariously on the VCR's top was a stack of worn Disney movies. Some of the cases had initials carved into them, along with dirt, and in some cases, something that looked like dried blood. She quickly dropped the stack, and left for coffee soon after that lovely surprise, unsure if she could look at Mickey Mouse the same way again.

She pulled her focus in now. She knew the room, now it was only the patient that seemed foreign. She held her clipboard closer to her chest than ever before, suddenly feeling like she was about to have an audience with a king, or a prince. Was she underdressed? Overdressed? Did she need a weapon? No weapon? Would that leave a weak impression? Would he even bother speaking her to this time? _The way the other inmates revere him_, was the only line that ran through her blonde head. She reached for her pen and felt something sharp press into her palm. Startled, she pulled it out. It was the minute bat signal from Batman. Her stomach turns to ice. Why did she keep this stupid thing with her?

Not many patients had mentioned Batman so far…perhaps. Perhaps she could just get rid of this before-

_Beepbeep, beepbeep. _Nope. There's her alarm. Joker's session was about to begin.

She taked a deep breath, shoving the Bat-crap-thing roughly into her jacket pocket as she entered the room. The guards took their leave without a word, but Harleen recognized the young face of the guard from yesterday. His expression is emotionless at her smile. The door closed with a bang.

Harleen's breathing sounds incredibly loud to her, but she approaches the table that sits between her and her patient with forced ease. She allows a brief look at him just before she begins her well-practiced speech that she had been preparing since late last night_. Patient looks much better today_, Harleen concludes with a quick eye. _Not as rough-housed._ The bruises were healing up quickly. A thin piece of tape held his long, angular nose into place. A dark purple outlined his eyes, highlighting the malignant, sparkling green gems that rested within them. His hair hung loosely today, but still just as carefully combed back for the farce of some sort old fashioned style. The name of it just dimly rested in the back of Harleen's childhood memory. Something from the 20's, or the 40's…

From the angle at with the guards had placed him, Harleen could easily see the multiple chains that cuffed at his boney ankles and the metal table cuffs that wrapped at his wrists that highly limited his movement. She even noticed a thick cuff about his narrow neck—and she wanted to gasp at the idea of such a heavy weight against her windpipe. But, she supposed, this is the only way to stop him from causing bodily harm to himself.

Or her.

"I understand that perhaps you were a bit alarmed at the sight of me, so I thought I'd bring you a gift. You know, to," Her tongue felt rough and dry in her mouth as she spoke. "…try again?"

Harleen unclipped a thoroughly guard-handled pack of generic playing cards, and slid it across the table, slipping her hand away when she felt she was just a little too close. She could still practically _smell_ his breath from last time, his lips at her ear, the sound traveling down; spiraling into a bottomless pit in her stomach that she didn't even know existed. She flexed her shoulders to pass off the fact that even that _thought _made the hair on the back of her neck stand on edge.

His eyes lit up, his mouth opening into a transfixed 'O'. His hands sprung to the pack, delicately whipping the top open with the skills Harleen thought to only be possessed by that of a long-time Casino dealer. He weighed the cards in his hand, and then quickly leaned them out in a neat, orderly row across the table, face side down. He stuck out the tip of his tongue and tugged it in towards the corner of his mouth while he worked. In slow, deliberate strokes, he flipped over four cards.

"Pam, Laura, Nicole, Katelyn," He tapped a long finger over each one, glancing his brilliant green eyes to Harleen's face. He repeated this act twice, and then ducked down to use his toes—only to pop back up with such enthusiasm that Harleen startled back in her chair in surprise.

"Wait, wait, wait, and wait! Hold the kizbits and deal me out," He held up a large, chalk-white hand, and giggled when the hand-cuffs chain struck taunt and jiggled his hand back down. "Who are _you?"_

Harleen stared quizzically at her patient for a moment; the way his angular, high cheek bones moved with the lean muscles of his mouth. His lips shimmered with crimson flecks that seemed to lie intimately between layers of soft flesh. The previous file she had read talked of his perfect control over his entire face, his exuberant, charismatic voice. She blinked. They weren't exaggerating a thing that was for certain. His _voice—_just his natural speaking voice was so enthralling, so_ happy_, that she wanted nothing more but to record him speaking from this session on. He seemed to breathe life and energy into the bruised walls of the caged room. But she held her wishes in, brought back to earth by his puzzling question.

_ Surely, surely he would remember beating his head in and laughing at my struggles? But he seems so genuine_, Harleen mused_…_maybe she really could start over.

"You're speaking to me?"

Joker's lips seemed to sag a little. He snatched up a card and held it aloft to Harleen's face as if it was a photograph, his eyes squinting to take in both images at once. "Didn't I talk to ya, Doc?"

"Not yesterday, no. But, that's okay. I'm new here. I'm sure you just have to adjust to me." Harleen smiled tentatively. "I'm your new psychiatrist, Doctor Quinzel."

A look of realization washed on his face, each muscle and eyebrow moment seeming to slow to match the free-fall of emotion like water rolling down a smooth window pane—surprise, shock, amusement and…delight? He gave a little shrug, the chains tingling together.

"Well I'll be a Bat's Uncle! Welcome to the Mad House, Doctor Quinny. My name is…well," A faint blush seemed colour his sheepish grin. He leaned forward, jagging the line of cards with his elbows. "We'll jump off that bridge when we come to it. So, did you learn anything new on your first trip out?"

Harleen adjusted her pen, folding up her notes against her torso when she noticed Patient J's eyes leaning over. "I heard tell that you played a very mean trick on me yesterday." She was lucky that she caught herself over the word 'trick'. She nearly said 'joke'.

"Oh? And who's spreading those nasty things? It wouldn't do you good to listen to the rumor mill, Doc." He leaned forward more. _Patient seems completely unafraid of personal space or guards growing slowly more alert and agitated by his large bodily moments,_ Harleen stroked down.

A long, pale arm linked up to his face, and, with numerous cards carefully poking out between each knuckle, he placed his hand to cup over the side of his mouth, muffling the sound of his magnetic voice as if someone else in the room could possibly over hear them. "Between you and me, Doc—I think some of the folks that yap their traps off here are _crazy!"_

He then let her have the full front of his laughter. It poured out of him, practically streamed from his lips—each heavily pronounced '_HA—HA!—HA_!' and _'HEE! HA! HEE—' _bounced around the room with a force that made Harleen tremble, actually_ tremble_; the ink rolling down her notes page went unnoticed from the shock of it. Her own mouth was open, and his voice seemed to plunge in, glossing down her throat, absorbing into her blood stream with an acidic burn that rushed all around her body with a slight tingly feeling. It started low and dark then occasionally rose high and loud, mystifying her ears with a scale that was not unlike an orchestra of human vocal cords. She fought to take a note—to describe, to record, but she was like a deer in the head lights, trampled by the sheer power of his laughter.

He gradually stopped, chuckles faintly shaking his lean frame, and with it, Harleen's heart beat slowed to where she could finally take a breath without her chest feeling like it was about to burst open. But from fear? From nervousness? From…excitement? She wasn't sure. She trembled again as he spoke, and gripped her pen tighter_. God Dammit Harleen, you survived the first day. What is wrong with you?_

"How 'bout you just tell Old Uncle J who said such malarkey—and POW!" He curled his fists tightly, crushing the cards sitting within his grasp, and swung up wildly through the air—only to have the rough, cracking sound of wrist bone grinding back against metal interrupt his excitement. The chains jerked back the motion into reverse. His hands and arms seems to be full of so much energy—Harleen wondered how much punishment the old table could take before the nails that screwed in the chains snapped with rust. He giggled again at his limitations, flexing his fingers.

"That'll keep 'em in line!" He added with a smile that just barely showed the whites of his teeth.

"Keep them in line," Harleen repeated, jumping at the transition to ask a question. "Would you mind telling me about what you think when it comes to the other prisoners having a kind of respect for you? What do you think about their views?"

Patient J threw back his head and laughed, the sound echoing off the walls, tainting their hues and blasting into Harleen's ears. She didn't trembled now—no, not on this laugh. This laugh seemed to lack something… "Respect! Respect! You are a _riot_, Doc! Respect, ha." He reached up to wipe an invisible tear from his gleaming eye. " Respect doesn't exist in here."

Harleen raised her brows. "Really?"

"Oh don't be so high and mightily intrigued like this is something new. Honestly! Respect doesn't exist out in _your_world either! Respect is just a word that good lil' proper society uses to cover up bad definitions of fear and domination."

Joker flipped back the cards all in a row with the back of his hand—a parlor trick Harleen didn't even know was possible. He flashed a large smile that had all the personality of the word devious, and he began dealing out the cards so fast that Harleen's eyes had trouble distinguishing where the white swirling of the card began and when the white of his hand ended.

"So you're dominating here, then? The…leader, if you will?"

"Leader!" Joker pulled his elastic smile into a slight smirk, which quivered from the laughter he was swallowing back down. "Me? Oh, you flatter me Doctor. Oh no, I'm not their leader. You see," Joker slid his hand across the table to rack back the cards, and in smooth, careful movements, he began stacking them into a house. Harleen stared back fascinated.

"You see, if this place is a house of cards," He carefully lined up a decent sized tower of thin, while walls topped with roofs. His fingers seemed to prance inside and out of the flimsy structure, never disrupting the system. Harleen leaned her head down to peer inside. "That makes me the king of the pack,"

He flicked out the bottom row, and Harleen watched them toppled like a domino line. "But," His hand caught the ending card, and he spun it on his finger, before pulling more energy into it and tossing it into the second row, which proceedingly toppled into the mess beneath it. "I prefer the Joker myself," He grinned, and, like some amazing physics trick, the falling card from the last row popped out into the Joker's second awaiting hand. In it was The Joker card, of course.

Harleen fought the urge to applaud the trick and demand to know how it was done._ I didn't even realize—and it was so fast. He just-!_

Harleen cleared her throat. "So, you feel their reverence to you is nothing but a hoax?"

"Hatred and fear are the only emotions in this world that matter, even when they really don't, you followin' me? So it doesn't matter if they're a bunch of fakers, the system we embrace is a system that runs outside of existence. Take Ol' Pengers and I for instance. Now we don't usually see eye to eye—him being the size of Micky Rooney and all that—but—oh."

Joker stopped, his lips snapping shut, and his eyes finally peered up from the pile of cards before him to meet Harleen's baby blues. "Well lookit you, Doc. You just got me pouring out all my secrets—and this is only the first date! Well Missy, you should know that J doesn't kiss and tell! Buttering me up with cards. You're a clever lil' cad, you."

"Well, I just thought—since yesterday. I just wanted to be nice."

"Hm," Joker huffed, shuffling the cards with a_ fffffffst_. "Well that's just weird, Doc. Really. And what is it with you, anyways? No one's nice here. We aren't nice. Doctors aren't nice. Sharp I don't think even understands the meaning of the word 'compassion'—"

Joker paused in his shuffling, and he slowly titled his head. "All right, cards on the table, toots."

"I'm sorry?" Harleen intoned nervously, misunderstanding. He let the cards go in a ravishing flourish of white and red.

"Here's me…," He flipped over a card with the Joker's face. "And then there's you," Joker leaned back, his voice lowering into a contemplative regard. He turned over a second card. The Queen of Diamonds, face up. He tried to cross his arms but the chains kept the opposite fingers at least five inches from his elbow, so he contented himself with tapping the tips of his fingers on his pants-leg kneecap.

"Me?" Harleen blinked, trying not to squeak. His green eyes seemed to glow encouragement.

"No one else sitting pretty but you, sweetcheeks."

Harleen shifted, suppressing a blush as Joker refused to break contact with her eyes. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand what you mean."

He leaned his head back, rolling his eyes expressively at the ceiling. "You youngsters these days with your vile texting speak and your meaningless, electronically pulsing music. What I _said_ was—"

"No, I know what you said, Joker. What I meant was what did you mean by 'me'? Am I doing something distressing to you, or different from your other doctors? Something that you don't like…perhaps?"

She turned over her card.

A low, approval string of subtle chuckles within a hum slipped from the Joker's throat. "Oh no, you see, that's the whole _problem_, Doc. I'm beginning to like you. The way you're talking to me about the other inmates. Not going straight after my goods like an attempted date rape—you're the first doctor that really knows how to treat a guy without getting your cold hands all over his good parts— _You_ really know how to treat a fellow. Not even a flirtatious wink out of you! Light and pointless as the environment around us." Joker lifted his chained hands to motion around the room theatrically as he talked. "It's…" He inwardly swallowed the words to keep his cool. _Hilarious. Ridiculous. Absurd. "_Nice."

"Well, it's only fair to not bombard you when you aren't comfortable, and only this brief session."

"Uncomfortable?" Joker mused with a secret bip of a chuckle. He roughly shook his ankle, waist, neck, and hand constraints. "I love these things! Though, one does get used to the same old, same old." He slid a long arm across the table to weep in the playing deck. "Thanks for the cards."

"I'm sorry to say you can't have them. And that our time is nearly up."

Joker's smile slowly deflated into a frown, but he let go of the pack. The boxed clock on the wall reflected the time of 8:30am, and, right on time to Sharp's new organization, a group of guards entered in without warning or regard for what the Joker was just about to finish saying.

"Well you know what they say: 'You can't take it with you'. But I look forward to our second date. Or is it the third? I'll have to ask Calendar-doo! Glad I didn't scare you off—and oh, hey!" Joker drummed his palms on the table as two guards took him by the shoulder, another to unlock his ankle, wrists, and waist cuff; the final guard struggled to keep the patient's lanky arms in check. "If you _really_ want to learn more about this place, you should just go on ahead and ask the obvious question to the ol' Bird. I'm sure it'll be a _laugh."_

Harleen stared after Joker, and, once the time lapsed to 8:45, she made her way downstairs to collect her next patient's file. She'd have to put away any ideas of obvious questions for now. From what she would be soon reading, her next patient would be taking her to a place far beyond the obvious, and illogical to questions, at that.


	11. Tuesday: Patient H

_**AN#8: **__This author's note is number eight, and I'm late, for a very important date!_

* * *

><p><strong>Tuesday:<strong>  
><em>Intensive Treatment Ward<em>  
><em>October 2, 9:00 am<em>  
><em>Patient H AKA: Jervis Tetch<em>

Harleen sits down in the white, clean room of the Intensive Treatment Ward, and waits. Her fingers twitch nervously, for as she had walked calmly through the central door, she heard the the screaming of a man. It's high, and pleading, and there is the sound of someone being dragged. Alarmed, she quickly pulls out her audio recorder. She placed it into the center of the table and pressed the red button.

_Click._

_**Jervis: **_No, no, no, _nonononnonon_, no! You—you, (Scuffle of feet. Resistance of two other bodies.) You can't let me go in there, you brutes! Alice! Alice! She'll see me—and I've been so very bad. She's blonde, you see! I've seen! I know! She's blonde! You _can't!_

**(A Doctor's muffled voice):** Jervis, please. Relax. I believe you and your new doctor have much to discuss. You've been dreaming again, haven't you? You need this—

_**Jervis:**_ But I've _heard_ her! In my dreams—It's Alice! She's here! Everyone's whispering. Everyone knows. Even He knows! _He _knows! I know! And I haven't gotten my hat back yet—Oh. (A thudding sound, followed by a low moan. They're nearly at the door. Harleen locks her legs together as the moan rises up shrilly.) _Ooo_hh, why are you doing this to me? I've been so bad. Now we're late. We're so very late—

(A bang. The door is forced opened, and a guard and white-coated doctor practically drag a ragged looking man inside. The flesh of his heels are digging desperately into the tiles. He's about 5'6, and has red hair that reminds Harleen of Pamela Isley, but it is much dirtier and dull looking as it hangs wirily about his neck.)

**Doctor:** He's in a bit of a tizzy, today, Miss Quinzel, but I promise he has much to tell you.  
><strong><br>Harleen:** That's fine, thank you. Jervis, would you like sit down?  
><em><strong><br>Jervis:**_ (Quietly.) You're so very polite to me, although I act so ungentlemanly. With your yellow hair, and your (A gasp.)— But wait. _Alice!_ Alice doesn't have _breasts! _Someone's made a terrible mistake with you! Don't worry! Not to worry! I know how to fix you! In my second hat—the nine and fourteenth quarters one—there's a knife, and we can cut those out—

(The sound crackles, the shifting of a chair and locks about wooden legs. Jervis is restrained to his seat across from Harleen. There is a brief silence, before the second rustling of cloth informs Harleen that the guard has taken Jervis by the chin, roughly clasped between his fingers, crushing in his jaw and lower half of his cheeks.)

**Guard:** This is _not_ Alice, freak. This is not Alice, and so you will talk to this adult, lovely grown woman. Not Alice. If I hear you open that twisted mouth of yours in one more threat towards the doctor, I'm burning that book.

(A low whine hiccups from Patient H, and Harleen glances at him. The rustling of papers. He leans down and covers his face with his dirty hands. _Patient seems…very emotional. Interesting. Every patient hence forth has seemed to lack emotion… _The guard and doctor leave_._Jarvis remains hunched in his chair, sniffling.)

(Harleen clears her throat; her voice is clearly affected by his tears.)

**Harleen: **Why hello, Jervis. Please, please don't upset. It is all right. You don't have to speak if you do not wish to. My name is Doctor Quinzel, and I shall be your new psychiatrist. Your…tea drinking partner, if you will.

(Jervis slowly looks up at her, a single eye peeking out from between his fingers. His shoulders shake silently. She cannot tell if he is laughing or crying through the childish act.)

Your doctor says you been dreaming a lot lately. Would you like to talk about that? I won't make you, of course.**  
><strong>_**  
>Jervis:<strong>_ I'm always dreaming, doctor. Sometimes I dream so much that I don't know when I've woken up. I don't know what's real, and what's not. And sometimes I don't think that even really matters. But only sometimes. It's like I'm constantly falling down a rabbit's hole…except they're trying to bite me, those soft, evil bunnies. My dreams hurt—the colours, hurt! Everything is so bright! So vivid. And I fall through dream after dream after dream…I think I scream. But no one ever comes to wake me. Alice never comes… (A soft listless sigh.) …I miss Alice.

(The scratch of a pen_. Patient is not mistaken under the identity of schizophrenia. Patients diagnosed with the mental disorder often speak of myriad dreams in bright colours._)  
><strong><br>Harleen:** Alice? You…mean from _Alice in Wonderland_? By Lewis Carroll? …Would you care to talk to me more about—

_**Jervis:** —Alice?_!  
><strong><br>Harleen: **Later, Jervis, later. I was going to say Lewis Carroll.

_**Jervis:**_ Ah. Well. Don't you see it? Have you read him? Lewis Carroll. He is so very brilliant. Brilliant man. It's an _anagram_. He's speaking to me, you see. 100 and something years later, and he is still talking. Sometimes in my dreams, I see Alice, and she talks to me. She's such a sweet girl. I always do wonder why her head falls off when I touch her. I just want to touch her.

**Harleen:** ….We'll come back to Alice, Jervis. (Harleen's voice soothes, and she writes_ patient keeps kneeding through his hair and wincing. He is diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia and obsessive compulsion. I can only imagine the torment from not having his objective satisfaction, much like Dent. )_What do you mean by Carroll being 'brilliant'? Have you found something, Jervis?

_**Jervis: **_(A giggle.) It's all in the book, my darling, beautiful, blonde. The book. Lewis Carroll. The letters often dance for me, in my brain, but he's spelled it all out. I'll trade you my secrets for a piece of paper. I'd use my own paper, but I can't possibly damage a gift from the Queen.

(_Of Hearts?_ Harleen thinks to herself, her brows coming together. The ripping of a paper from Harleen's pad. It is slid over. Jervis quickly writes out in big, squiggly letters:)

_**LEWIS CARROLL  
><strong>_

(He then rewrites new words with arrows raining from the letters in the author's name several times.)  
><em><strong><br>**__**IS **__**WILL**__** REAL OR ARE WE**__** LIES**__** ?**_

_**Jervis**_**:** …Every letter of his name spells out my work, my life's dream, you see. It came to me as a boy, and I was sitting with my gram-gram drinking tea. Will power. The fraction and refraction of the brain. Mind control—with HATS. The 'MAD' Hatter? Oh how fancy free, how subtle to be! I realized that I had to test Carroll's theory. That I had to do so by becoming the Mad Hatter. Oh how much_ fun_ that was! Gram-gram was so sweet. She always indulged in me. Believed in me. She was the first one to give me my first copy of '_Alice_', you see. She made me hats to wear. Sure, other boys made fun of me, but I knew their dirty little minds, thinking horrible thoughts about my gram-gram. About Alice. But she was mine, you see. They both were mine. So I made hats for those boys and they were never seen again. But I could hear them whispering in class—and they'd—!

(He paused, his wide, gray eyes becoming glassy. He took in a startlingly choking breath. Almost like a sob.) They put their nasty fingers all over my books. Books my Gram gave me, don't you see, my dear bobblin' brat? She gave them to me. They were mine! All _mine._And it was their lack of will power that killed them. (Giggle.) If such a thing really existed. I don't like it when people touch my things.

**Harleen: **Jarvis, how old was your grandmother?

_**Jervis:**_ Oh old. So very, very old. And soft. It was like I could poke her and she'd fall apart. It was so…hard, sometimes. I found myself…staring at her, and she could just disintegrate before my eyes! And I couldn't put her back together—no, no, and then birthdays went by, and _un-_birthdays went by further still, and she wasn't adding up anymore. She was all wrong. So I had to fix her. But then I realized that in Wonderland could very much be like Never Land, and children never grow old. And then I realized something else that made me understand that my childhood was on the brink of something.

…Gram-gram was _lying._ And when I went to fix her body, she kept whispering something—everyone, those voices, whispering something:

(A pause, and Jervis's mouth stretches awkwardly over the next phrase, like he's tasting something awful. Each word is spit out slow and painfully. His left brow twitches with the strain.)

…'I'm... not...Alice.'

So I stopped. I dropped my books, and my hats and touching her soft skin and I stopped counting the seconds to tea time. And then one day…she stopped.

(A blink. His mouth falls open, and his head tilts, his eyes defocused.)

**Harleen:** Go on…Jervis?

_**Jervis:**_ Oh yes. We were having tea, one day, and she just…stopped moving. I...I didn't know what was wrong. I traded hats, I traded seats, I read to her. But she just…wasn't there. Someone…Someone had stolen her. But then mummy told me that she hadn't been stolen. She was dead…..I don't remember much after that. Just that, mummy suddenly wanted to join us all for tea, and it was lovely. I added sugar and spices and there was this terrible smell, but that was alright, because we were so _happy._But then, people came and took them away, and into the ground. And suddenly, tea time was so very lonely. I had never felt lonesome before.

(He stopped, his eyes on the tape recorder. Suddenly, his tone brightened.) And so I took tea time to them! I set up the entire thing, right next to their graves, and I was happy again! Reading to them. Sharing biscuits. (A giggle.) I should go back there and celebrate with them again.

**Harleen:** Jervis. About your mother…I understand that she died soon after your grandmother?

_**Jervis:**_ Yes!... And no. That's still quite confuddling to me, I suppose. That night, she tucked me in and closed the door. And it was dark. And I was scared. But I saw something standing at the end of my bed. Do you know what it was, lovely? A jabberwocky! Can you believe my _luck?_ And I saw it burst out of my room, down the hall and…I found mummy dead. There certainly is a lot of blood in people. Enough to fill elven tea pots, actually. Believe me, I know!  
><strong><br>Harleen: **Seeing your mother dead must have been earth-shattering. Do you think that's when your childhood ended, Jervis? A twisted 'coming of age', if you will?

(Air whipping: Jervis shook his head so roughly that spittle flew in droplets against the table.)

_**Jervis:**_ My childhood isn't over, my dear! That can't be! It just can't be! Childhood isn't a lie. _CHILDHOOD IS THE KINGDOM WHERE NOBODY DIES_! (Jarvish quickly tried to stand from his chair, still pulling at the chains he recited with an actor's pleasure. The chair squeaks, chains rattled and his high voice swallows out :)

_So you find a bigger box, and bury her in the yard, and weep._

_But you do not wake up a month from then, two months,_

_A year from then, two years, in the middle of the night_

_And weep, with your knuckles in your mouth, and say: Oh, God!_

_Oh, God!_

_Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies that matters,_

—_mothers and fathers don't die._

(Jervis's nervously quiet voice suddenly escalated several decibels as he yelled the poem. He took another breath, his hands tugging at his head. He blinked at Harleen, as if realizing she was just now there. A giggle slips through his lips.)

But…Carroll was telling me something different. That Jabberwocky he sent me was guiding me. Showing me the truth. That I was the _true_ Mad Hatter! And that Alice is only a child. A lost, scared little blonde bitch that _I _had to find! And those adults with her name just wouldn't do. So I decided to help in my own way. I'd find Alice by weeding out all the other girls that couldn't possibly be her. Or I'd try to fix them—you know! Like you!

(A shuddering of chains and cloth as the patient made extravagant motions towards Harleen's chest.)  
><strong><br>Harleen:** I…I understand, Jervis, that you were mistreated for your delusions and that suffering from such extreme schizophrenia as a child must have been hard, but surely you must know that you killed your mother. Not Lewis Carroll. Not mind control from a book. Not an imaginary Jabberwocky. You. Your files have documentation of this. There are photographs.  
><em><strong><br>Jervis:**_ Oh I _know _I killed mummy, you yellow haired angel. But I just had to kill her, don't you see, my naïve little girl? She was the first. (A pause, a deep breath, as if he was savoring the words in his mouth. He then spoke the next four words slowly, with a gentle, ecstatic smile.)

…Her name was _Alice._

(A giggle.)

_Click._

* * *

><p><span>And is not that a mother's gentle hand that withdraws your curtains<span>  
><span>And a mother's sweet voice that summons you to rise?<span>  
><span>The ugly dreams that frightened you so when all was dark-<span>

Lewis Carroll

'_Alice's Adventures in Wonderland'  
><em>_**  
>EAN# 10:<strong>__ Thank everyone SO much again for enjoying! Yes, I do understand that real anagrams are used with just single uses of a single letter from another word. But he's crazy—you want logic in that? Sorry for the delay! I took my previous writing time between school and work to read "THE PSYCHOPATH TEST". It was very good. And now I can insert a deeper understanding of the criminals' illnesses now. I hope I did Hatter okay. He was great sport. Faster update guaranteed Saturday. Does it feel…__**cold**__ in here to anyone? *Thank you to **Seven-of-Storms** for the correction of his name. How embarrassing of me. ""*  
><em>


	12. Tuesday: Patient F

**AN9#: **_I know, I know! I'm super behind, and late, and very exhausted. Thank you all SO MUCH for the suggestions and reviews! I promise I will try to involve as much as I can. But please know all the love and wonderful reviews mean absolutely everything to me. My highest reviewed story is 65, and this is already at 57. Just think- perhaps this story will go past 65- to maybe even 100 reviews! Oh my god. That would be that biggest honour for me. That would be Christmas day for me! Thank you all so much for enjoying. I promise I'm working as fast I can. Studying for exams and working is a killer._

* * *

><p><strong>Tuesday:<strong>  
>CELL BLOCK D. 4.<br>October 2, 9:45am  
>Patient F AKA: Victor Fries<p>

When they handed her a heavy, white, fur-lined winter jacket upon the approach to her third patient, Harleen couldn't help but give a quizzical look to the guards. A gruff, thickly muscled guard held it open for her as she slid her arms inside, and instantly she wanted to tear it back off. It felt suffocating. The dry autumn heat that swept through the cell blocks reached a sweltering point within seconds of putting it on. A guard took notice of her discomfort, and he quickly led her to the door. It was an actual door—very much like Harvey Dent's. Only this door bared no name, but peeking out ominously from its sides were thick, glittering patches of ice.

"We couldn't possibly move him to the Commerce Room? It's what I was planning." Harleen explained.

"With dis guy, Doctor, you follow his plans, not yours. You can't plan anything around him. He's too smart for that comforting shit. Besides, he can't survive for than couple of seconds outside sub-zero temperature, or he starts to freak. And believe me, to see this guy freak is a trip. One time Benny dragged him out just for kicks—and Freeze was on his knees in less than 30 seconds, nauseated and gasping."

"That's _terrible!_" Harleen gasped, horrified, pulling away from the guard's protection. "You did this without his suit? His suit would—"

"—We've had _incidents_ before with allowing him out of his cage and into his robo-tech." The guard interrupted, eyes glaring at the door. "There's so many hidden weapons that many guards have lost legs and eyes to him over the years. A lot of 'em we can't even managed to deactivate, and that's_ if_ we even find 'em. Don't gimmie that look, lady. Benny dragged him out for revenge. We didn't hurt him. We don't have to. We just like to see ol' Heart O' Ice _sweat_."

Harleen's swallowed, her own eyes fixated on the door. "I see." She squeaked, her voice hoarse.

"He just gets to Ben, and Rick and me, ya know Doctor? He just doesn't _get_ anything. He doesn't react! He doesn't feel anything. Even if we punch 'em when he ain't cooperating with Sharp savvy-like! That guy is so infuriating impassable! A real ice wall—I can't believe someone could be so emotionally dead. Most of the villains here get off to their fucked up feelings—but Freeze? No. Zip. Nadda. It sucks. Sometimes we wonder why he's even here! Heh."

The guard took a deep breath for a minute, and glanced to his partner. "But then we see the things he does to the people here, and the cops he's froze, and we remember."

Harleen repressed a shiver within her coat, and the guard chuckled.

"Aw, now don't you worry Miss. He's actually one of the more civil ones, epically to ladies. Respectable to them, even. A complete 180 from Tetch."

The door was unlocked, and a hot vat of steam shuttered out of a circular locking chamber, and the door was open.

"That's fer if he ever tries to hack the lock himself," The guard added.

~*~ Inside ~*~

Inside, the room was _beyond_ cold. It was even beyond _freezing_, and the jacket that was once such a burden became the center point of any type of warmth for Harleen. Her joints locked instantly, and she awkwardly felt herself take timid, breathy steps into the square cell. Her pen dug harshly into her suddenly numb palm, and she couldn't feel her documents pressed to her side any longer. She imagined that this must be what all Artic Divers feel when they take their very first plunge into the frigid, dark, engulfing waters. Without clothes.

There was a cot made of thick ropes the reminded Harleen of the sort of lines she would find on cargo ships. Hanging from the cot where hundreds upon hundreds of icicles in perfect, symmetrical miniature. The tile floor was slick, and bare—a sink, a slit of a window, a mental desk. Bits of coils, and batteries, and fluid in odd shaped jars filled the table and corners of the room. Simple shelves reached from the Harleen's eye level towards the staggeringly high cell ceiling. She titled her neck up, and watched in silent, terrified awe as gorgeous, flat snowflakes seemed to rain down over them out of thin air. Dull, snow covered gleams finally introduced Harleen's sense to why the ceiling was so very tall. Two air vents had been set up to hypo- regulate the temperature to exact degrees below zero.

Finally her eyes settled on Victor Fries. Thin, and slender in body, he certainly seemed to be one of her more elder patients— 50, or so, but his body aged at an impossibly slow pace. Many medical documents claimed that the cryogenic fluid that had infected and raced through his blood and heart as one functioning subzero system had turned his human body into something much more_. Immortal._ His skin was snow-white, and his veins seemed to pop from every part in a remarkable shade of blue. The veins highlighted his eyebrows and along his lips. His lacked few wrinkles or scars—or hair, for that matter. It was as if he had just walked out from a refrigerator and had not aged a day since of the many years that Batman had begun bringing him into the asylum.

Harleen sat as carefully as she could into the brought in chair, feeling as if she had to balanced or slide out of it unprofessionally. Victor Fries sat perfectly still along his cot, his eyes casting wearily downwards towards her. He never seemed to blink, unlike by conscious choice.

_Patient has been diagnosed with acute schizoid compromise—an act of wanting human connection as much as it does his fear of closeness. Started in childhood: detachment of parents, anti-sociability. Exception: Nora. Psychosis realized towards the people that took his wife from him. On the surface, patient seems to lack regard for anyone besides praise for his work, or his general investment of his "Freeze" persona very much like the rest of the Super Criminals. Only attempts at his wife end in depression or pain for the patient, but it is a good attempt to play towards this retained human emotion as much as possible…_

"Good morning, Victor Fries. My name is Harleen Quinzel. I shall be your new doctor, and I have arranged this meeting to complete the introduction. How are you feeling this morning?"

"I feel nothing this morning, as always, Miss. But I imagine you are cold. For practicality, you should make this brief."

"Not at all Victor. I am sure it must be quite lonely box up in here. I'm happy to chat."

"Idle trifling is pointless." Victor's voice never rose to involve any type of inflection. Calm. Serene. Cold.

"Just give me one moment, please." Harleen adjusted her skirt and jacket once more, discreetly sweeping bits of snow from her blonde hair. A silent moment passed where Harleen was aware of nothing but the scratching of her pencil and Fries alert, opaque blue eyes upon the back of her neck.

"Let us get to the point, Miss Quinzel." Victor interrupted suddenly, during which Harleen looked up from her writings of the room and her patient's physical state.

"And what point would that be Victor?"

Victor studied Harleen for a short moment, his lips in a solid line. Then they barely lifted open as he spoke. "You have such a sweet voice, child. What is it that you are doing here? You should be outside. With friends, and pets….a lover."

Harleen snuggled closer to the inner fur lining of her jacket, the coolness turning to a light fire that rushed to her face. A blush never felt so painful. She was thankful that the ice kept any colour from actually showing. "I am here to help you, Victor. That's all I want. I just want to help get you and all the other Super Criminals out of here."

"I understand you are young. But you should be careful with how you word things. You would make terrible criminal with that voice. Your looks."

"Other," Harleen began cautiously as she spoke. "…files say that you, perhaps of all the inmates here, refuse to speak. But yet you're talking to me. Even commenting about my looks. They say you don't care for much of anything, or anyone. That are you, pardon my pun, '_frozen with apathy'_."

Victor sighed, a gentle sound that left a brief flurry of tiny frozen ice bits floating on the air between them with a single exhale. Harleen stared, fascinated, but Victor simply lifted a frail hand and brushed them away, lost in the frigid atmosphere of the room. "That is correct. However, there is something about you..." He broke off as his eyes tightened at her.

Harleen tried to mimic her patient's stone posture, but she felt her breathing quicken painfully under such scrutinization.

"…that reminds me of my wife. I feel the need to express to you that you shouldn't be here. That it is dangerous. And that you should run. Fast and far, and that you should never look back." He finished clipidly.

"I remind you of your wife?" Harleen practically whispered out in shock.

"Blonde. Blue eyed. Common yet uncommon features surround you. Perhaps it is the sensitivity in your voice. Or perhaps that I have had few young, female doctors. This is no place for a lady. Nor a man. Not really. This is a place of isolation and contempt."

Harleen paused at his voice. There was something in his phrase…his manner of speaking that made it seem as if he was blaming himself. "Are you referring to yourself with that statement, Victor? Because you know there is hope. There is always hope. It's why I'm here."

Victor's light, crystal eyes dimmed as he gazed at the doctor, and then mutely stared out of the one foot square block of a window that took up the back wall of his cell, showcasing the eastern shoreline of Gotham City.

"Hope. You say it like it is a gift to be given on Christmas day to a child. Or something that is valuable. Well, if you consider yourself hope, than you truly are setting yourself up to be a gift. You are a child's plaything in here. Hope is for the insane, you will find. But I am _not_ an insane man, Miss Quinzel."

_Child's play thing? Hope for the insane?_ Harleen tried to repress how much his hard, cutting voice seemed to reach her right down to her core. She tried not to feel hurt. She blamed the voracious cold for the ping of discomfort in her chest.

"Not insane? Just…trapped, do you think?" Harleen sought to lick at her achingly chapping lips, but thought better and focused on pressing on.

"Miss Quinzel, regardless of what is whispered here, I am_ still_ a man of strict technological science, and if that has taught me anything, it is this: Here, in Gotham. Here, in Arkham. Here, on planet earth. There is _no _such thing as a happy ending. The irony of using such a 'fairy-tale' phrase is not intended, nor amusing."

" Happy. An emotion, you've brought up, I see. I know that it is a hard subject for you, Victor, but would you might telling me of your first happy memory? There is no pressure, of course."

"Really. No: "Let's Talk About You as A Child", repertoire?" Harleen's Patient seemed to almost take a slight upturned tone to his voice. _Surprise, perhaps?_

"Of course not Victor. Let's talk about what matters most to you, if you feel up to it."

Patient F slowly forced his icy gaze back to the young woman, his hands rested on his knees. His hands were clasped together, fingers laced so tightly that the bones of his knuckles seemed to break the skin of his hands, only to be instantly mended over with frozen blood. The whole process seemed to happen continuously—Freeze would move, a bone would pop, or skin would rip open—but the blood that rushed from him was an eerile, misty white—darker than fresh snow, but just the same consistency. She shuddered and averted her eyes to his shoulder, which held a collar bone that seemed just barely contained by his skin in just the same fashion…

_Patient seemed unaffected by the bodily harm of his condition. Files go back and forth on whether the patient feels pain at all, be it emotional or physical. Should test this somehow. Humanely.  
><em>  
>Victor blinked hard, and when he opened his eyes once more, he sat up straighter, his posture changing defensively. His crossed his arms over his chest as if he were now cold.<p>

"You are young." The monotone in his voice rose ever so slightly. " Life has been kind to you."

He paused, his eyes closing again. "You will learn."

"Interesting for you to begin with a musical." Harleen leaned forward, her ankles crossing together, heels replaced with white boots for heat.

Victor's eyes snapped open in surprise—the first emotion to alight his expressionless face.

"You are the very first doctor to not mistake my remark as condescension towards their life experiences. Interesting. You are a quick. But you are also a woman, and it is typical for them to be much more compassionate to tone, to phrase, to musical theater."

"_Sweeney Todd_?" Harleen arched an eyebrow.

"…Nora's favourite play. We often went to see it together. I had never been to the Gotham Opera House before, and I never listened much to music either. Before Nora, work was everything to me. My colleges at GothCorps joked with me—called me a workaholic. But it wasn't just that I was such an addict. I often found it harder to leave than work constantly. Even when I wanted to leave, when my lungs practically burned for the taste of summer, or spring, and not the dull gleam of mental and sulfur, I couldn't bring myself to do it."

"Agoraphobia?" Harleen quipped, her pencil to her document.

"Yes. Perhaps, something like that. To get to me leave, Nora would always have to…"

Victor's tone wafted into a weighted silence. He rolled his shoulders back, and went on, his voice hardening.

"I do not wish to talk about this anymore."

Harleen's heart sank—Victor Fries talking about his wife so intimately was such a _profound_ step—and now she was losing him. He was shutting down! But why? _Why?_ She wanted to rip out her hair, to scream, and shake her patient by the shoulders—Harleen blinked at her the images of her inner fantasy. _Whoa. Anger much, Harley? What would violence do? You'd probably break the poor guy!_

Harleen's controlled her inner anxiety, and said: "It's okay. Thank you for sharing what you could with me, Victor. It really was a pleasure hearing about her. She sounded like a lovely woman."

"She_ is_ a lovely woman, Miss Quinzel. Please watch your tenses, _now."_

"I'm so sorry," Harleen punched herself internally as Fries voice turned distinctly sharp again. What a stupid mistake to make the subject even more tender_. Patient deems his wife still alive while in her cyogenetic state, wife tenses just stay present ,_she noted... "I didn't mean that. I will certainly be more aware. But I just have one curious comment."

Victor did not look at her, his body as still as a statue. His head was bowed defensibly, as if he was waiting to be struck.

"That musical your wife enjoyed—it is a dark play, isn't it? That's strange. Nora liked dark ideas?"

Harleen's lead dug so hard into her paper that it nearly snapped. _This was it—if Nora was such a catalyst to Fries motivation, in an act of unconscious devotion to be the ultimate husband did he personalize her love of the disturbing?_

"Nora is a woman of many colours. She is the Northern Lights, changing and shifting into so many colours that an aurora beam is not enough to contain her spirit. But even so, I never particularly enjoyed the play. It was too coincidental, too tragic, too illogical. It showcased the decomposition of the human condition—how far someone is willing to for revenge—in the vengeful sake of flesh and blood. And people eating pies of such vile debauchery. It was horrid to sit through every time. The main character was entirely unrealistic. He made all the wrong choices—he could have found his wife; could have done so many other methods to break his vice. But he wallowed in blood in the hope of helping his wife….all the hard work. The years of waiting…the patience…only to end up _killing_ her."

Victor stopped, his face wiping blank for a moment, slack with chill, and an off-colour shade of blue from his previous exchange that had forced exertion into his vocal cords.

"But for Nora…for Nora, I'd do anything. Even face the play that I hated most. So I sat through it with her many times."

"When did you first see the play? First date? Anniversary?"

"That is enough. Perhaps for another time. Or not. Our time is nearly up." Victor's voice settled again to disinterest, and he stood, leaning a long, ice-pale arm towards the door.

Harleen backpedaled, and she soon realized that Fries was indeed right. A glowing, electrically pulsing clock read out as 10:15 am.

"Of course. But please, once more thing, Victor, if you don't mind. What was it the most you disliked about the play?"

Victor Fries took in a deep breath—Harleen could practically see the rush of numbing air being ripped up and into his nasal passage from the sheer force of it. A breath out—small shards of glass like ice littered the floor.

"As illogical as the play was, it's final message still retained substance within me. It is like I told you before, Miss Quinzel. There is no such thing as a happy ending. The inevitably of loss echoes endlessly."

"It's heartbreaking," Harleen agreed solemnly as she made for the door, the tiny of warmth from her hand leaving an imprint in the snowy surface of the handle as she pulled. As the door budges however, something made her turn back. Something pulled at her heart to look just one more time before she left.

_The inevitably of loss._

She turned to find herself face to face with her patient. His lanky, stolidly build body towering over. His face expressionless, his breath tasteless on the air. He lacked sent, or hair, or even the will to breathe. But yet his presence behind her was so _human. _His bleak, glass blue eyes met hers, and his lips chapped lips formed into a small frown as he studied her so close.

"Leave this place, Miss Quinzel. If you know what is good for you, and your future. Leave this place. You will be destroyed here. It is _you _who will be _lost_." He practically whispered the words.

Harleen only stared back at him, before she tipped open the door and left him to his cell, to brood in his own coldness.

* * *

><p><strong>EAN# 11<strong> : I do have more plans for Nora and Freeze. _The Return of **Penguin** is up next. Ooooh, I've been lookin' forward to 'em! He's a fun one, he is. You guys really seem to love that chapter, which is awesome, because I love it too. And him. He's just so angry! And I *promise* **a new chapter will be up tomorrow** as well. For realz. And if not, please yell at me for it. I'll deserve it. c:_


	13. Tuesday: Patient Z

**Tuesday:  
><strong>INTENSIVE TREATMENT HALLWAY C. 66. Block D.  
>October the second, 10:30 am.<br>Patient Z AKA: Victor Zsasz

"He ain't allowed in the Commerce Room," A guard's steely voice snapped.

"Excuse me?" Harleen narrowed her eyes, teeth on edge. "This is the second patient you're denying the room from. I am his doctor, and I _need_ that room."

"Doctor, you're new here, and I gotta say, you're way too damn optimistic. We don't take orders from you quite yet."

"I'll just inform Sharp then—"

"—Lady! _Really?" _The guard threw up his hands at her, covered in thick, black, bullet-proof padding, as they walked to the next Patient's cell. "Are you so naïve as to think that Sharp actually gives a shit?"

Victior Zsasz pressed his tall, skinny body against his cell door, intrigued by the voices outside that were growing louder. He kneaded his head into the single, plexi-glass window that showed him the gritty, buzzing hallway that led to Intensive Treatment. It was a man's voice and female's. He tilted his head to hear further. _Squeal piggies!_ He thought, his fingers flexing. _Squeal!_

"—I still say you're being much too harsh! Every patient needs time to be outside of their confines and I just feel that—" Harleen's voice died in her throat as she came eye to eye with something thick, long and slimy looking that was being pressed and slid back and forth against the little window. She blinked, involuntarily taking a step back. The guard glanced at her, wondering why she had stopped talking, only to nearly chuckle at her expression.

"Ha! Jesus Christ." The guard paused, fiddling with a circle set of silver keys that all locked and unlocked Patient Z's cell. "Lookit 'em. He's practically salivating to talk to you, miss. He's usually not so excitable."

"That's…that's his _tongue?"_

"Sure hope so," The guard roughly agreed. He then slammed a curled fist hard against the door so hard the little window shook. "ZSASZ! BACK THE HELL UP FROM THE DOOR, OR I'M BRINGING MISTER MCCARDINGAN IN WITH ME."

The bizarre trick worked to Harleen's annoyed amazement. The window was no longer obstructed; riddled only with the clear, dripping wetness left from the trails of a human tongue over glass. The guard worked with the keys, crouching down. Harleen glanced at the window—only to nearly shriek when she saw a large, wild looking black eye.

Harleen squeaked, nearly tripping over the guard's large boot as she leaned back. The guard quickly sprang into action, lifting up a leg to kick at the door, pounding harder.

"I SAID GET BACK YOU RABID_ ANIMAL!"_

Harleen found that she was once more clutching her clipboard to her chest, her breathing hitching. The guard turned and looked sympathetically at her, and held out his arm to pull her back again. "All right, okay. I'm sorry for all the yelling. Just, this guy's so stupidly unpredictable. Can't train him, can't deal with him. I tell him a simple order and it's like he forgets. I know he wants us inside with him, the freak. So I know he'd listen. Yet he keeps coming back like a hungry stray. Filthy animal."

"It's—it's okay." She gasped, trying to level her voice. "I just…why did you threaten him?"

"What—_really?" _The guard stood to his full height, final key in the lock. "Why did I—because he's a freakin' psychopath! Probably the most murderous here. Everyone else has their social connections, their plans, and their motivation. But him? This guy? He's a mad mutt chasing cars. But he knows just what he wants when he catches one."

"I'm afraid that doesn't answer my question."

"Yeah, where this isn't exactly a place full of straight answers, Doctor Quinn."

"It's Quin_zel_."

"Whatever. Doctor. Listen. The thing with psychopaths is simple. Ol' McCardingan is just a nickname for the portable electrotherapy machine. We've found that Zsasz doesn't respond to shock. Well, no, that's not quite it. Er…what did Doctor Cassidy say…"

"It's not that he can't feel the pain. But that he forgets about it."

The guard stared at her for a moment. "Yeah, yeah that actually sounds about right. It's weird, but he remembers it if we refer to it with a special nickname just for him."

"Interesting," Harleen glanced at his file. "So, it is nearly time. If you won't let him be moved, could I at least be alone with him?"

The guard looked at her wide-eyed, and then locked his face into a frown. "I can give you ten minutes of alone time, but then I have to come in. Warden's orders. You really shouldn't be alone with this guy."

"I'll take my chances."

Victor's Zsasz's cell was the smallest cell Harleen had yet to be in. It was narrow, and cramped, with nothing but half a cot. The tiles were sleek and shone with the buzzing reinforced metal plated light above. Harleen slid inside, and took to leaning against the left wall while she studied her patient's file.

_VICTOR ZSASZ: Mass murder. Body Count—unknown. Age: 37. Complete lack for human life, or remorse for his actions. Every victim to document on his body. Would be classified as a normal psychopath except for a curious obsession with The Batman's escape from his knife._

Harleen held her file against her stomach as she gazed at him. Whatever that threat the guard had used on him seemed to subdue him greatly. The guard was even able nonchalantly come in and strap on the restraints. He was extremely tall, and thin—but he certainly had muscle. She had heard talk from other guards and doctors that if one were to stroll by Zsasz cell they would often catch him preforming Isometric exercises within its cramped quarters. Perhaps giving Victor such a controlled enclosed environment was proving to be more of a good thing for him than bad.

He was bald, with grey-dirty skin. His wiry physique only extenuated his tallness, as well as the shocking amount of long, white scars that seemed to decorate his body. His hands were bond together with two iron padlocks that sat heavily in his lap. His knees were locked in an iron brace, and his ankles were chained. Harleen still had to wonder why she needed the protection of a guard…there was no way anyone could escape from locks like that.

"Hello Victor. My name is Harleen Quinzel, and I shall be your new doctor, transferring you over from Doctor Cassidy."

"Shame." Victor held his gaze with her unnervingly. "I will miss my former doctor."

"I'm sorry Victor. But I still hope we can make progress together?"

"What is it that you wish to know, then, new doctor? Come to probe the mind of a generous being?"

"Generous?" Harleen's eyebrows rose.

"Surely you have read my file."

"Actually…referring to your file. I understand many doctors go over your view in life, your negative ideas towards the future…and your …let's call it…obsession with cutting yourself? Your body counts…hm…so I'm curious if you'd like to go a different approach."

"Certainly," he nodded slowly. Harleen's felt completely unnerved by his actions. He was so slow— calculating, and methodical to his movements. Even the way he talked had a peculiar pacing to it, coming out in slow, patience sentences. It seemed very inhuman and mechanical. His voice lacked personality, or any type of tone to it. His vocal cords rang out flatly, the more he talked, the more he seemed to choose his words, and take his time. She was grateful for his willingness to speak—but the more he spoke, the more of an internal twitch Harleen was feeling inside herself. The twitch to run.

"It's about your parents. I'm going to stop there. Would you care to elaborate in your own way?"

"Yes." His soft, slow monotone had a creepy effect on Harleen, but she kept a straight face. He stared impassively at her as he talked. He never blinked. Or never seemed too. "My parents died in a boating wreck. I was twenty-five. I had just finished my final year at an out of state, extremely privilege university, majoring in business that I had used during my previous years to bring extra large amounts of meaningless coin to my parents already massive fortune."

"Yes, so I've read in your files. Victor, may I possibly ask a painful question?"

"One should not fear pain, Miss Quinzel," Victor replied slowly, each word seeming to fall from his mouth with slow, measured audacity.

Harleen's heart pounded. What was it about this patient? He didn't do anything but breathe, and yet she was horrified. His dark, black eyes seemed to lack depth. They only stared superficially at her, sparkling and glittering listlessly and maliciously on their surface. Yet Harleen felt she would have to be careful staring into those eyes. The guards may think him a simple minded beast, but Harleen could just sense that one false step, and the black surface would crack. Why she pictured falling into a chasm of red, hot blood and not cool, midnight water she couldn't say. She blinked, startled, wondering if she had missed her opportunity.

"Are you all right, doctor?" Zsasz titled his neck, his eyes wide, never blinking. She shivered as she ran her eyes over his marks, tallies, and scars that covered every inch of his skin.

"Yes, I'm sorry Victor. I'm still just a tad cold from my visit with Mister Fries. "

"Ah," the soft noise rose barely above his empty tone. "We have the same first name, you know. I asked him once if that meant he felt that he was me. Me, before my vital epiphany, that is. That he was soon going to be leading up to my glorious ideals that human feeling, and emotion is nothing but a ruse that protects us from the abyss of nothingness that is random death, and life. But Fries simply said that he would have to think more on the human condition before he ruled out all life was worthless. I guess love makes people think life is worth something. But, really, all it is in a mating ritual. You meet someone, you attract them through physique, bodily hormones, you fornicate, you produce offspring—and think that_ loving_ them will make up for the selfish act of bringing them into this tasteless, pointless existence—and forget the fact that the only reason you wanted a mate, and wanted your babies, is because you don't want to die alone. Or live …alone. Or make your short, small life seem effortless as you pass because you left children. Just like every purposeless insect on this earth does. Human life ends in the act that leads up to what cockroaches do. That's all our lives boil down too. The final acts of cockroaches. Millions of them. Billions. Every day the number increases. All just wishing for my gift."

Harleen nodded, the tip of her tongue on the back of her teeth as she fought for a response. But she decided that she'd fight his pessimistic view point another time. She wanted to know more about his parents.

"Victor—if you pardon my leading you off topic. Would you mind telling me more about your patents' deaths? Were you there when it happened?"

Victor sat back for a moment, leaning his head against the cramped, tight space. His eyes closed, and Harleen felt like she could breathe properly again.

"It was December 24th when my parents died. So I always feel particularly_ giving _around that time of year."

"Did your family celebrate holidays?"

"Christmas." He paused. "Yes. Mother had a particular fondness for Christmas lights. When I was a child, she would take my hand, and Father would wrap his arm tight around her, and we would have our chauffeur drive us around all of Gotham all night every Christmas eve. I'm sure you have seen Gotham during December, Miss Quinzel. I am sure you understand just how…gorgeous…the decaying city looks. All strung up in reds…and blues."

"I do."

A sigh—the second sound that fought not to rise above his monotone, but drop below it. "I saw the glorious crash that claimed their lives. I had just arrived home, as a surprise, on Christmas Eve. I was dressed in my best suit—a rose for mother. The best classic watch money could buy for Father in my pocket. I searched the house, but couldn't find them. So…I walked out onto the dock. I…so clearly remember the cold, soft, puffs of snow that littered the black of my suit. Spotted through my hair. I…looked out onto the lake. And I saw their boat."

Another paused. Victor swallowed. The dark purple under his eyes seemed to pale to a blue colour. He swallowed a second time. Then a third. "On that dock, I stood and watched as my parents multimillion dollar boat crashed into our neighbor's. An accident, police said. A _motor _failure. It was so quick. I…only regret that I couldn't _savor _it…like the _Titanic_. But there was an instantiation of fire, ash, oil, and splitters of wood that fell through the air…puncturing the ice…puncturing my hands, my face…the smell of burning…..I ran out into the dock…walked along the ice…but….soon after that it is all darkness. I suppose I must have fallen through."

"Fallen through? How—How did you not drown?"

"I do not know. I think a next door neighbor saw the boat. Saw me, drifting in the cold, and sinking into the depths, crusted by ice. All I know is that…I woke up screaming, that night. After the police had gone, and the water had swallowed the blood, and the fire, and a new colour had been added to my Christmas Eve tradition. Orange. Orange like the bright, beautiful essence of oil catching a-flame over a black, frozen lake. But the most curious think—I didn't just feel sad. I didn't just feel…depressed. I…felt…_nothing._And the only time I managed to raise my voice was when I would scream at night…after I re-lived the crash, and watched the head of my mother come gliding over the red, burning sea…and into my arms…and she would bite at my throat…"

Victor's slow, grading voice stopped, and Harleen found herself listening in towards him with intrigue. She quickly readjusted herself, and sought to pick up writing where she had left off.

"…It was then that I would die…and feel peace." Victor finished.

"And…you woke up frightened? Screaming, because you were scared?"

"To die? Yes. Oh yes. I was so naive back then. That was, of course, before I knew what salvation really was. Were it really was. In the throat…"

He slowly raised his dirty, long fingers to his neck, and used a nail to begin digging roughly into the soft flesh. He made no noise as he did this—but seemed to close his eyes in ecstasy about it.

"Victor," Harleen began softly, thankful that their time was nearly up, and that she was just inches, seconds, from the door. "When you dream now, what do you see?"

He stopped. He pulled his nail from his neck, and Harleen was shocked at the white, deep indented shape of a line that rested just along it.

"They tell me I should dream in black and white, but I don't. I dream in red. And I see everyone else as my victims. Zombies. All just wanting for my gift."

"And…the guard. What he yelled at you—about the portable electrotherapy machine? To make you remember? What was it called? McGardier?"

"McCardingan. Yes. I remember it fondly. Why?"

"I…was just curious. Is that nickname only for you to know it by?"

"I'd imagine it is. It is a secret between me and the guards you see. Would you like to know it, Miss Quinzel?"

"Only if you'd be so kind as to tell me, Victor."

"It is the name of the motor company that ran my parents boat." He smiled. The first expression on his face, and it was a smile. Harleen swallowed to not relief, her heart sinking in her chest. _What? How...how could that be?_ She made for the door.

"Doctor do not often visit me, Miss Quinzel. They think that I am…incurable, very much how I think them…blind to my ascendance. So, if this is the last time we meet, I just wanted to know that I wish you a _happy_ Christmas. And maybe…I'll see you next year. Please tell Penguin that I have a special gift for him this year, although it is October. But…you've put me in _gifting _mood. Thank you, Miss Quinzel."

"Thank you Victor," Harleen practically leapt for the door, and the guard outside locked it shut just as fast. Then it hit her. _How did Zsasz know about…?_

"That was quick. I was about to come in." The guard interrupting her thoughts.

Harleen's rage welled up inside of her, and Harleen roughly gripped her clipboard, and spun around on her heels, forcing her elbows to lock so she wouldn't raise it above her head and smash it down into his skull. The _guard._  
><em><br>_"You. Are. The._ beast."_Harleen spat out slowly, her blue eyes burning into the guard's. The guard flushed, and took a step back.

"What are you talkin' about, Doc?"

"Using a method of extricating punishment and associating it with the memory of the device that helped create the Super Persona of Victor Zsasz?" Harleen's voice nearly shook with rage. She wanted to scream. _How? How to could they treat the victims like this, and expect them to get well? How?_

"Lady! You think these freaks are curable? You think Zsasz is curable? Do you? Really?"

"URGH!" She groaned. "_You!_ –If you'd just!- But no!- No one. No one here is listening! No one here is giving them a chance! Don't you see? Don't any if you _see_?"

"I'm a guard. I'm not meant to give hugs and be sympathetic to these killers."

"Just because you have the power to hurt, and contain these patients, doesn't mean you have to abuse it." Harleen huffed, turning on her heel and made for the next hall_._

_Did…did I just scream at a high security guard? Oh God. Harleen. What are you doing? - But these poor patients! You have to start doing something to help them! But what? How? Is there anyone that would listen? What about the patients themselves. Is there anyone here that isn't jaded by doctors? _That understands that she just wanted to help?_ Years and years of abused and intolerance probably is too deep to heal._

But if she could just get one of them to listen to her. Just _one.  
><em>  
>Then she could really start to make some changes around here. <p>

* * *

><p><em><strong>EAN# 12:<strong>_ So…I…lied? *Hides* Why are **you all SO freakin' good to me**? 70—71! 71 REVIEWS! GUYS! GUYS! THIS MAKES **THIS STORY MY HIGHEST REVIEWED STORY SO FARR!** AHHH! I love you**. I love you all**. Seriously. **This is the BEST week/Christmas Eve/ Christmas ever! So Happy Holidays! Merry Christmas! Lovely New Year to all! **You readers have made this writer the happiest in the world. Seriously. I'm very sorry for missing my dead-line, and for switching this chapter with Penguin. Penger's is more of a plot mover, although, so I just need more time for a better chapter for you all. Zsasz has proven surprisingly useful to me as well. So I am very sorry about that. Work is always a killer, and a couple of family issues came up. **But please, everyone have a safe, wonderful holiday, and I can't wait to hear from you guys soon! Please enjoy! And thank you. Thank you SO much again!**


	14. Tuesday: Patient inteRRRrrRRRupted

_**AN#10:**So what has ol' Kay been doing for nearly a week and something days while you guys haven't gotten an update? You're about to find out._

**I know this is long, but I PROMISE you it's an important part, and essential plot mover that will reveal and start to bring together different elements of the story that I am certain all of you will be very pleased with, and, if not in the least, interested in.** It even has **Riddely, Mistah J himself, our darhlin' Harleen, and...a special surprise. My person FAVOURITE hero of all time. And he's DC Universe, so please no flames**. He has a purpose, but I promise, for anyone that does *not* know him, or understand him, please know that he will not be here for long to keep confusing my lovely readers.

* * *

><p><em>"Do you know it takes an inch of water to drown a grown man, Miss Quinzel?"<em>

_Harleen paused, mouth open. No sound. Try again._

_"No. No, I wasn't aware of that, Edward."_

_"Really? I think about that a lot."_

_Alarmed. "Killing yourself?"_

* * *

><p>"<em>Hurm." <em>The gruff sound curled off the wet, slick sewer walls under Arkham Asylum. It warped and wrapped itself up around and into the pipes; following the thick, fluid rush of water as it made its way up into the necks of every sink had been protocolly installed in every inmates' cell. It resonated off the grim, gritty bell of a mental drain that sat inside the bowl of the paling, moldy sink.

_"Hhhhhhh."_The echo slid nearly silently from the sink in the corner.

The Joker sat up in his cot. Well, as best he could, anyhow. He was in a straight-jacket, and that made quick, sudden moments a little awkward. Not that he didn't mind being awkward. But he had _heard _something. He was almost positive he did. And it came from his sink. He arched his head to take a glance, only to lose his balance and fall backwards, startling his numb spinal nerves into a frenzy of pain when he clacked against the cot's cell wall.

His eyes were forced to look at the rotting ceiling as he attempted to wiggle from side to side to reach an erect position. He was curious now—here he was, playing with his toes, imagining them to be toppling buildings that burned with each clench of a muscle that melted into ashes as he curled his way towards his pinky—supreme ruler of Athlete's Foottropolsis and Buniontham City.

And what was it now? He was sure that he was force fed his four morning pills about an hour ago, which usually made physical sounds much more potent and loud—so he couldn't just be thinking these sounds! Not hallucinating them! At least…not yet. _OH_ no. This was different. _No, no, nah, no. _He summed up. _This was a surprise._

He giggled.

* * *

><p><em>"Kill…killing myself? Honestly, Miss Quinzel—you doctors are so neurotic. Get a hold of yourself. Kill myself, please. No—never. Not once in my…well. Regardless, I don't think about it as a means of suicide, Doctor. Just, how stupid the whole concept is. That an inch of water poses a threat to our mere existence. How could that be? Who discovered that? I ponder it frequently."<em>

_"You are…upset by the lack of dignity in that death? The physical indignity?"_

_"Physical indignity, Miss Quinzel. You catch on, perhaps."_

_"Perhaps, Edward?"_

_"But you're still missing the point of it all."_

_"I'm afraid I don't follow."  
><em>

_"Can you swim, Miss Quinzel? I never understood how someone could drown. Shouldn't we have an instinct to do so? Swim, I mean? But yet people are crushed by nature—if not by a wave, or a tsunami, or just…falling off a boat. But yet people freak out, and slander around like mindless ducklings until they are sucked down into the gullet of the ocean's water-moccasin like jaws. It should be natural to curl your legs; to kick, and reach, and pull the water back and force nature to keep you alive as your struggle to keep your head above the water."_

_"Is…this a metaphor for something, Edward? Is everything all right?"_

* * *

><p>A loud rumbling seemed to shake Joker's floor now—and his brilliant green eyes widened at the spark and pops of metal flying off of the circlets along the pipes—someone was…breaking through the sewer system? Joker couldn't help but crinkle his nose at his soon to be arriving guest.<p>

"There's a cell door, ya know." He added to the air, eyes still on the ceiling. "I mean, I prefer any way but the appropriate way but…"

A pipe ripped inwardly, easily cracking through the fragile, desecrating brinks that made up Joker's back wall. It was just near where the edge of the side met with the grind of meshed pipe that lead back into the bricks. More snaps—bricks giving way.

Whatever it was, it sure sounded…fun.

"Croc?" He tested.

A loud pound answered, and Joker twisted his legs so that the pads of his feet met with the cool, thick tiles under him. "Look, I'd love to help you, pal, I really would—but uh, I'm a little tied up."

He gave a shrug as if the intruder was already right in front of him, and flexed his toes. The ramming of something solid and powerful made the final push—Joker glanced at the camera and, mugging for a guard with smirk, glanced at the door—curious to where his continuous entertainment of Phil and Rick had gone for the day. When he realized that no one was coming he titled his head, and squinted as the figure's shoulder rammed its way into his cell.

Joker nearly choked at the shadowy figure that had pushed through the pipes before him.  
><em><br>"Batman?_!_"_

* * *

><p><em>"You are referring to my cryptic little games that I play with the Gothamites? Why would I do that to my own doctor? This is only, after all, our second session together."<em>

_"I understand. But you also have a keen ear for following interesting links to the happenings around Arkham. Have you been spying on my other sessions, Edward? Is your approach to conversation a test for me? Because I'm willing to take it. You have a fascinating view on conversation and the human brain."_

_Edward leaned forward in his chair, the clinking of ankle cuffs pulling against his movement._

_"Well that's all very good, Doctor, but do tell me then: why do you look so nervous?"_

* * *

><p>The figure stood, and looked around carefully before stepping out from the gash in the wall, confused by the look of happiness that was beaming from the prisoner's face across from him. That usually was<em> far<em> from the expression he got when he entered a room. He swallowed harshly, keeping his expression stoic, though he wanted to gag from stalking the sewer lining for so long. But it was a different town, and that required a different method of approach—after all, he'd never been called to stop such a famous criminal that was currently _incarcerated._ But the note was well written—logical, and seemingly desperate. And the man couldn't just let that slip out of his fingers. He couldn't just say _no._And perhaps… it was this strong will that had been bestowed into the man's sense of right and wrong that force him to hop train after train, claw the gargoyles and purchase subway maps. Slowing walking towards an uncompromising ideal that set this whole event into production…all by following a well written plea. A tip off from an inside source that had documented proof of further destruction to a city that was spiraling into its own Gothic death-rattle, as far as the man could tell from just days of traveling in it. So very much like his own city. No. This was something he couldn't ignore.

So he came to end what the local mask apparently didn't have the gall to do. And he'd do it fast, and get out.

Joker blinked at him, his smile wavering between disappointment and genuine intrigue. _Who was this? _He titled his head slowly, cracking his neck in the process. The small sound rippled the silence between them. From a horizontal angel, Joker tried his best to put a name to a face. But that was the whole problem—he could see the man's _face!_ The man had one arm curled around what seemed to be a white piece of fabric that was being pressed hard along the lower part of his jaw. He sighed; With Bats he'd _never _have this problem.

"Ah…" Joker pouted. "No. No you're not Bat-brain."

Joker watched as the man's knotty fingers pushed hard into the fabric, and some noise—something that seemed almost like a _growl_ ripped from the man's throat. Joker slowly made eyes at him, taking his sweet time in sweeping over the man's face. Red, dirty hair. _Ugly_ as Croc's- mall-bone-structure. Prominent cheek bones. Freckles. _Ffffsttt_—Joker swallowed an urgent rupture of laughter that wanted to hiss from his throat. He'd never expected his intruder to come with _freckles._

"Yeah. You're differently not Batman. Well, I can't say I didn't try to imagine that you were. But when you stare at someone's romantically chiseled jaw-line for as many years as I have, you begin to_ imagine_. Ya see, Bats knows how to make an entrance. And knows to keep his mask on." Joker fixed his head back into a normal talking position. "Now, I know you're somebody!" He lifted his leg up, and used his toes to point at the man like someone would do with their pointer-fingers. "But without a _mask to a name_, I just can't tell you who you are."

"Doesn't matter who I am. Here for one thing. You." The red-head's voice was gravelly, with a low rasp like someone shaking a bag of sharp pebbles, or trying to sandpaper one down to a smooth surface.

Joker's green eyes narrowed, and he tugged his smile to the side of his lips cheekily. "But we've only just met! Why, what would the other inmates think? You can't just barge into my cell and put your hands all over me willy-nilly-like, tough guy! If you're not going to buy me a drink, you at _least _have to tell me your name first, mister."

The man's icy blue eyes flashed dangerously, his posture locking at Joker's words. Joker, of course, took note of this. _Hmm, not one for sweet talk, eh? Maybe you will be fun._ _Maybe you have some buttons that need some pushing hidden in that stingy boring trench coat of yours. Just like Bats!_ Joker pushed back onto the cot, and used his legs to turn his body so that he stared at the tow-headed figure from an upside down view. He then chuckled as he said:

"So what'll it be…handsome?"

* * *

><p><em>"I'm not nervous in the least Edward. I'm just curious to what it is you're thinking."<em>

_"I'm thinking about the underground system of water the runs through the ancient caverns here on the Isle. It flows out into Gotham's shipping bay, and through the monstrosity herself. Do you know that 58 percent of the bottle water used in Gotham is from that very harbor? Though, considering how much Falcone Mafia business runs into the supply, you'd think someone would wise up. But even then, it's not the water's fault. We still drink it. And for 30 seconds on the dot of every five minute interval, that disgustingly filthy water gets sprayed into every open mouth of the denigrates living here."_

_"Would you like your water supply to be brought in from Metropolis then? I hear there's very clean water there. Would that help?" Regardless of the patient's ridiculous attempt for attention by complaining about the _water_, it's the least I could offer, Harleen commented to herself._

_"Miss Quinzel, you are falling behind. Perhaps I should make my diction a bit more direct for you. Shall I?"_

_"It is you who is talking about different water ideals, Edward. But certainly. Illuminate me. I'm sensing this is much, much more than water we're talking about here."_

_An exasperating sigh. "Then I shall return to basic symbolic elementary level English 1 for you. Recall our previous session. We talked of painting, of art, and literature."_

_"Yes, of course. And you mentioned Mark Twain, and Charles Dickens, I do remember."_

_"Not that I actually fathom the idea of you paying so close attention—epically in your less than attributing secondary schooling, but I'll take a guess that you have no idea what many symbolic motifs that these author correlate between one another?"_

_"I'm assuming it has something to do with water."_

_"Superficial. Think _harder_, Miss Quinzel. Think about water. About the Gotham bay. About its…contamination."_

_"Contamination? Wait. Hold on. Allow me to answer your first question to me. Water. I easily recall that in Literature it symbolizes rebirth, life, positivity, good health and, religiously, baptism."_

_"Oh very good," Edward commented, his voice thick with sarcasm. "Now relate to me why both Twain and Dickens used water in their stories."_

_"I…I'm afraid I don't know, Edward, I never—"_

_"That's right," Edward cut in with a tight, sharp smile. "You_ don't_ know. But that's okay. Admitting it is the first step. Allow me to help you. You don't have to be afraid of what you don't know. Just understand that I have everything under perfect control."_

* * *

><p>Pause. The man lowered the fabric from his face protectively—fabric Joker now recognized to be a mask. The figure took another careful step into the room, his shoulders hunched in as if he expected Joker to leap at him any second from his confines. He quickly unfurled his mask, and ducked his head as it pulled it on. Joker started from his position, startled, his head reeling from the image of the mask. He slumped to one side. A cracking of knuckles echoed off the walls. Joker flatted his face into his cot to suppress his giggles, his shoulders' heaving.<p>

"Think I'm going to buy you that drink… heh,"

"I'm gonna _need_ one to get over the ridiculousness of your mask, buddy! You're nearly as bad as—"

Joker's sentence was abruptly cut off. A wild motion of a hard, solid force seemed to rush him from the figure's direction—first knocking the wind out of him, and then it continued with something that felt strangely familiar as powerful fingers locked into his hair. Joker's eyes went wide with accelerated dilatation, and a sudden reflex to reach up over-came him. Joker's slender fingers caught a hold of his attacker's arm—the action seeming to surprise the man, as a low, dark sound hung above his head—and a violent twist heaved Joker off his cot, and, to Joker's fleeting glee, out of his straight jacket. Before he smashed onto the floor, however, an opposing knee rose up and into his jaw as he fell—the sour, brutal force of his teeth cutting into his own tongue filled his mouth with a raging gush of blood. A second kick to his side seemed to expertly crack a floating rib as Joker rolled again and again, before finally he threw his hands out, palms spread, to a spinning stop. He opened his mouth to laugh—but to his alarm, all that flowed out was bits of skin and blood that drenched the floor.

Coughing. A wrenching sound. A spattering of blood along the tiles that rolled into every square flooring crease like canal for the river Styx." — Batman's." He finished, casually wiping his mouth with the pale, white of his long arm. He glanced along his skin and observed the detail of his smeared blood with delight before returning his thoughts towards the threat of the situation.

Joker narrowed his eyes as he contemplated the smooth, acute punches that had been launched into him, bringing up a sore hand to feel along his body. It was almost as if this guy knew _just _where to hit—where —even to Joker's complete lack of attention and disregard—pain was still aching, still showing signs of healing from yesterday's previous encounter with Dork Knight himself.

He didn't have time to contemplate this for long. A shadow pooled over him, and Joker wrapped a long arm around his bruised side, and slid towards his sink, putting distance between himself and the masked man. The man rushed him again, arms striking out furiously with a jabs, full on punches— and then something that made a cracking sound that Joker assumed couldn't be good; before a hand wrapped around one of Joker's forearms and he was pulled to his feet—but Joker was ready. Just as the man gripped Joker's left arm, Joker simultaneously reached out as hard as he could with his right, latching onto the man's mask.

The vigilante growled again, low, and hard in his throat with alarm, and every muscle seemed to clench with barely controlled rage; utter shock that someone would dare touch his _face._ Another knee was raised that pounded into Joke's stomach and his left arm was forced up and behind his back— it was the sheer over-whelming stank of sweat, blood, and sewer pipes that made Joker move with his attacker's will to bent him backwards against the lip of the sink. His back ached, pain surging up every nerve, jolting towards his neck, screaming at his brain: Any further, and this'll end up like Bane's Mexican birthday blow-out party again! Except it'll be _your _back snapped! But he ignored it, grinning into the eyes of his attacker as the man's contempt obviously grew for the clown. He was used to the abuse. Hell, he nearly welcomed the random outbreak of it all. He started to laugh again, bubbling out with loose thin lines of red spittle, battling to stand.

The man leaned back, disgusted—or, what_ sounded_ like disgust, considering that man's mask reveled nothing of his actual expression. It was white—pure white—but the most peculiar thing was taking place on it. It seemed to lapse and change with heat—a pattern rapidly spread, joined, and melted apart in smooth, elaborate designs. Black ink. Black blots of ink…like one of the many Rorschach tests Joker had been forced to put up with over the years.

Joker had been following it with his eyes ever since the man had put it on—he wanted to_ laugh_ at it. He wanted to _steal _it away. He wanted to sell it on eBay to Crane for some scandalous price for the amount of rare heat-sensitive chemicals that it must have took to create it… and then have the package open up with a spring-loaded glove with an IOU punch to the professor's face! But he digressed. . .

A low _hrrr_, followed by a horrible twist of his shoulder forced Joker to stretch back further. Joker's eyes tore themselves away from the moving ink and he stared long and hard at the sink above him.

"I've changed by mind," Joker's grinned, spittle flying within the air as he spoke with loud, clear exuberance, to which the pattern on his vigilante's mask seemed to twist into a ribbon of smaller black dots. "If I'm going to go down, I at least want it on my terms. Do you mind if I take a quick rinse? Got to look _gorgeous _for the funeral and all—"

Joker then head-butted the metal with a _clang_—his forehead clacking hard and the skin resting there splitting open into a deep gash that instantly rolled down his temples in streams of thick, maroon coloured liquid. The sink bursting from the force didn't help anything. Water sprayed out hard and into the air—drenching Joker's attacker and forcing the man to lock his fingers into a tight hold.

Joker took the advantage of such welcomed intimacy. He reached again, through the shower of greasy water and blood and raked his long fingers upwards, scraping into the man's neck and along his jaw, forcing the fabric, up, and further till—_If only this was Batman_, he furrowed his brows, his smile clenching, stretching, _if only, if only_, his heart pounded the name- _was he here? Watching me?—I want you to be Batman-Be Batman, Be Batman—Batman, Batman, Batman—_a knee was brought up to hold Joker into place as the pressure that had been blossoming into an amazing kamikaze of malicious pain turned into a tsunami that rolled over him in waves of purple hues and blackness, breaking his mantra—the silence didn't last long; soon it flashed with red coloured brilliancy of consciousness as several punches to the face kept him from blacking out entirely. Seconds had passed—his shoulder was completely useless, popped from its socket with enough force to rupture seven of his ribs. But Joker was only spurred on now—he kept reaching to the dismay of his attacker, kept pushing against the force of a hand on his wrist—a rough, red stubble cheek was shown, and finally, an eye.

Joker ripped his nails back down the man's face, but the eye never blinked—impassive with burning, furious anger. And blue. So. Very. Blue. Just like_ him_. He threw back his head into uncontainable laughter, his knees going weak. The man quickly used both of his arms to grasp at Joker's flimsy Asylum shirt—hoisting him up and against the sink again.

"_What is it?__"_ He roared, threatening to bend Joker's spine to a dangerous degree of snapping, using the entire weight of his frame to lean down._ "What is so funny?"_

"Oh you! OooOOOoh you!" The Joker chortled. " HA! AH- HAHAHA-HE-HEE-HEE-HAHA-HEE!" His voice rose, higher, louder—shaking both his body and his assassin's. "_YOU!"_

The vigilante raised his gloved fist up to take aim at Joker's jaw.

* * *

><p><em>Harleen paused, pen to her lips. "<em>You're_ in control, Edward?"_

_"I'm leading you to the water, so to speak, Miss Quinzel."_

_"Let's try an image. I'm bending down over this—over Gotham Bay. What am I supposed to be seeing?"_

_Riddler hummed, leaning in on an elbow that had been placed on the table before using it as a place to rest his chin. He stared at his doctor for a moment, and closed his eyes. Harleen's eyebrow rose. It was...almost as if he was listening for something._

_After a deliberate moment, his eyelids slowly pulled back open, the light green of his eyes shimmering in the buzzing lights with elation. "_You._"_

* * *

><p>"HA—HAHAHA!" Joker continued, the sound bouncing and crashing into his intruder's ears.<p>

"Talk, _clown_." The mask demanded, his reveled eye blazing with fury, his fist tightening.

"You…," Joker began, sucking in big gulp of air after his laughing fit. "…you're…you're just like _Batman!_ But your _eyes_! There's something _different_ in your eyes!" Joker smiled. "Oh…oh _you._" He paused, his lips opening wide, his smile grim and meaningful.

"…You're the one I've been looking for. I get it now! Of course! I've heard of _you! _Your name escapes me right now…but Oh _yes_, honey, baby. You are _perfection_." —The mask growled at his words, but Joker continued on:

You're…you're an oxide-moron! A _moron!_ You're the hero who murders! You've got a blood-lust! A body count! People whisper about you from all over! …A hero who kills? Someone like Batman—but who _kills? _And just lookit' you! No good looks, or money to match. Well, well, well. And here I thought I was the special end to his coin. Looks like this is a threesome—but not to worry. I've got my eye on some lucky girl—but…I'm afraid I can't just let Batsy go without a fight."

"No need for oath of reprimand towards city hero. Pathetic Gotham mask is useless. Got a tip. Said a relentless homicidal manic needed to be killed because this Bat—man wouldn't. Found here. Found you."

"A tip?" Joker's lips quirked, red and wet. "Actually—friend, you've got it all wrong. You see, I'm not a homicidal maniac _all _the time! Right now, why. I'd say I'm just the victim of one."

"Unlikely. Straight jacketed. Locked in mental institution. Face paint."

"Oh you're one to talk!" Joker laughed—only to find his hair being ripped from his skull as the faucet's water was suddenly forced into his mouth.

"Nooonnnnyoooguuutiroogg!" Joker continued.

A grunt—the man pulled back, and Joker coughed up water, dribbling it down his throat and wetting his bare feet. "You've," He coughed, "got me…this isn't make-up…but a fella's got to have his looks—I'm sure you don't know what I mean…but…," a sputter of water, running red. "…but I think before ya kill me, you'd better watch out for Batman."

"What?" A frigid, ice-blue eye, trapped within a cornea of snow-white hate narrowed at the mad-man. "City vigilante would want retribution for _you?"_

"That's his deal. Tight tights, pointy ears. Not time for fun. Justice for all. Uncompromisingly alone and depressed. Would you like to know more? Me and Batsy go wayyyy back."

"Not interested."

"I'd be. You're just like 'em."

* * *

><p><em>"I'd see me?" Harleen tried to keep the curiosity out of her voice, playing along.<em>

_"Yes, Doctor Quinzel. In Gotham Bay, you would see your own reflection. That's common logic. But riddle me this: what would you see in yourself if you fell into the Gotham Bay?"_

_"If I…fell?"_

_"Did I_ stutter?"_Edward snapped; only he quickly revered back, blinking and bowing his head ominously, hiding his expression. "I'm…I'm sorry Harleen. I'm just…so anxious for you to understand my puzzle. No one here ever gets it. But you're getting closer."_

_Harleen frowned, her blonde brows coming together in thought. "It's okay Edward. You are allowed to outbursts just like everyone else. I'd imagine I'd be drenched with very, very polluted water."_

_Edward slowly looked up, his expression delighted. "Why yes. And…considering my mini lesson to you on waters symbolism. What does it mean when someone falls into polluted water? Any water will do! Here—I'll give you a hint. Did you know that Gotham's harbor was once connected to the old Ace Chemical's building? It was removed many, many years ago—but back then, it caused all sorts of environmental problems that would make Ivy curl up into the fetal position and weep for weeks. It caused deadly smog, poisoned the water, rained down upon the city in miserable bouts of acid rain…"_

_"Acid…" Harleen echoed. "Acid…rain…falling down." She blinked. "All over me... The Chemical Plant. I understand."_

_"Ah," Edward gasped, his hands rubbing together compulsively as he forced himself to remain seated. Not that he could move far regardless. "So you _do_ recall the infamous Ace Chemical Accident?"_

_"When…Batman first appeared, right?"_

_The Riddler nodded._

* * *

><p>Joker could only get away with scraps of small talk. Unlike Batman, Inky-face didn't want, nor care about anything Joker was saying. It all ended with punches to the jaw and left eye. The eye that Joker had revealed, and that made Joker smile. Which ended in another knuckled blow to the cheek.<p>

"Scream for someone." The man finally muttered out, spitting at the floor.

The Joker threw up his chin indignantly, and gave into loud, high pitched laughter. "HA! I could scream for help! But really, who would come? That's a good one!"

"Want you to."

"Scream? Mm, so forceful. I think I like you."

The Joker's head met the back of the wall with enough force to rattle his teeth—which all were still showing into a perfectly blissful smile. "Not funny. Warning you. Will break you. Thin ice."

"Wooo—" The Joker sighed, winded, "Well don't you_ feel_ just like him too! Even the warnings—though, you're a bit cold. And your eyes—speaking of ice! Boy, oh boy, don't you have the_ coldest_, most unforgiving eyes. You Vicky Fries brother, by any chance?"

A sharp snapped alerted Joker to his wrist, which was suddenly dangling at a very peculiar angle. He ducked to glance at it, and fought to control it again. It only flapped to the side. Numb.

"So…you _were _being serious? I'm missed talking to a straight man. Well, not to tell you what you like—I mean, everyone should be exactly how they want to be—"

A rough shake practically shook every bone in his body.

"Not asking questions here. I am."

"Oh good, good," Joker nodded, feeling the ridged grip of strong, powerful gloved fingers locking into his hair once more. The masked man pushed down, and Joker's head was roughly pulled downwards so that he'd face the sink head on and the mirror upside down. His eyes stared into the mirror and met with…the non-face. His aggressor's mask had changed to look like something…something so familiar that Joker's eyes furrowed together in the hope of clearing it away, before he let it slide as a slip up in his medication. He'd seen worse when he looked into his mirror before.

An ink clump in the shape of a bat.

"Well, whaddya-like ta know, huh?"

* * *

><p><em>"You see, I plan on doing a bit of professional detective work when I am in and out of Arkham, and, whilst preparing for this, I've found an interesting little mystery to do with Batman."<em>

_"Why?"_

_"Why what, my dear doctor?"_

_"Batman. What do you mean by this—this water symbol, and him?"_

_"You can picture the old headline in your mind, can't you? The old Ace Chemicals Building leaked one day—blown to gas tanks and massive acid outbreaks into the harbor, then the bay. Some say it even washed up onto Arkham Isle herself. But do you know the real cause of the explosion?"_

_"It was from a freak accident. A natural unbalance of earth that caused pressure on the floodgate to—"_

_"It was Batman."_

_Harleen shook her head. "What? How—"_

_"And the man he was chasing that day. You see, when I am bored in my cell—which is often never, I assure you, as I am always thinking of something of at least an intricate scale level to entertain myself with, I hear talk of the many different stories of a particular criminal here. It is not 100 percent, but a theory. And it holds information that far surpasses that outdated photo album that Sharp calls a 'complete patient case file'."_

_"You're referring to the Joker," Harleen's thoughts clicked together all at once._

_Edward Nigma smiled. "It only took you over eight minutes. I truly thought you would at least arrive at it by six. But, I guess even lab mice have their off days on reaching the cheese."_

_"Why are you referring to the Joker?"_

_"I've come to the understanding that you don't know where his physical attributes come from. You're studying his psychosis, and it's a local theory here that its acid caused. Of course, the mental damage—the man he was before he was changed, and the man he dresses to be are much deeper than some accident. But…as for his physicality's, it's a theory. A theory I hold to be true from what I've found. I'll tell you more—more about him. About Batman, perhaps. And the symbol of water. A way to…get closer to him. I think you ought to know. But first, you'll have to go see him."_

_"What?" Harleen gasped in shock. "Joker?"_

* * *

><p>"You're The Joker, correct? Call for guard. Must have verification for tip to go through."<p>

"That's me! Crown Prince Of Crime, at your inconvenience." Joker smiled at his upside reflection, and his guest's, in the mirror, before realizing that from this position, it looked like he was frowning. So he practiced frowning to turn his expression into a smile. It worked. " And what?" Joker added with a sneer of his lips. Lips that were blazing an inflamed red colour. "So that you'll get paid for offing lil' ol clown like me?"

"Not about money. Compelled to do this. Protect cities from rabid dogs like you." The ink split again, curling on the sides. Two dots taking place along the cheek bone. Joker licked his lips, tasting the metallic, salty goodness of drying blood.

"Compelled to _kill?"_ Joker's smile widened, his teeth stained riddles of dark blood. "See, I like you even more. You really outta talk to Bats. Maybe you could talk some sense into him about that. Oh, but that does remind me though, and I'm just going to go ahead and tell you: I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I can't let you kill me. Bats is the only one that can—think of it as… an inside _joke_ between best friends."

"You're…friends with this mask?"

Joker's brain whirled to full speed, and he slid out:

"Oh, we ALL are here! Maxie, Bane, even good ol' Scarface! Why do you think he lets off so easily? You see, he's not as…dedicated, as you, Blotty-boy. He just tosses us back in here. He's not so good after all. That's the whole problem with him. He _refuses _to kill."

"Personal moral to Gotham vigilante. A weak compromise, but allowed. His city. His infecting, festering scum. Am only here to deal with you."

"Then why," Joker gasped as a hard, full-frontal punch met with his stomach that seemed to be the density of a solid brick wall. "Would you want a guard to come?"

"Have to make sure. Have to have someone clean up mess. Can't look like suicide. Have to know justice is served."

* * *

><p><em>"It's quite alright. You do not need to reach his cell—the nearest security station is just down the hall here. I just want you to type in the password:Barbra1703."<em>

_"I'm not leaving my time with you Edward, to go see my other patient." Harleen's voice littered itself with altercations of exasperated bemusement. "That's ridiculous."_

_"Oh," Edward's green eyes seemed to shine. "But I implore you, Miss Quinzel. We're so close. To get into my mind, you have to do just a bit of…out of the cell thinking...Literally. It won't take long. Just a look."_

_Harleen glanced at the clock and then towards the door. "I'm locking you in. I'll be back in a minute. I don't know what you're getting at Edward, but I can understand that with your…personality, this might be what's best. But we're having a talk about you knowing this password when I get back."_

_"You're so knowing, Doctor," Edward nodded, a small, sheepish expression to his lips. "This is exactly what I need."_

* * *

><p><em><strong>~*<strong>~...Part One End: To be Continued...**~*~**_

So, obviously, this is quite a new approach for me- but** I sincerely hope you guys are enjoying, and let me know what you think.** What IS going on? What's Riddler planning? IS it going to plan? WILL it? Will Harleen find Joker in time? Where the hell are the guards? What will she do IF she finds him? And about Joker? Will this be his last laugh? Who IS this masked man? Why is he so angry? And so very much like our Dark Knight? **Why are there so many questions?** Find out soon! **And thank you SO much for reading. I know this chapter is long. Believe me. I shudder at the idea of forcing you all to read my writing for such a long time- but considering how this fic jumped from 71 to 87, I guess you guys...really...like me?**

**And that makes my deminted lilttle heart soar. Thank you SO much for everyones support. I hope I'm doing them all justice. I hope to thank everyone soon. So busy. Thank you again lovelies!**  
><strong><em><br>- Kay_**


	15. UNATHORIZED VIDEO CAMERA ACESS

_**AN# Watismath:**__ Well shit guys, what have I been doing for nearly a month? It's a long story and you guys probably don't want to hear it. __**It kills me to not be getting this stuff quicker to you guys, and**__**I'm so sorry. But life happens.**__ Or, I'm an idiot at math, failing my math course, and desperate to keep a decent math grade to graduate high school, happens. Got it? Good. Here's your chapter. __**Part 3 up tomorrow**__. __**Thanks for making my life a beautiful place with your words of enjoyment for this silly** story._

* * *

><p>Edward Nigma waited patiently as he watched the impatient pop of Doctor Harleen Quinzel's hip slander back and forth as she made for the door, and was soon gone. He leaned back again, bringing his long fingers to scratch at the nape of his neck—the soft tuff of brown hair resting there molding easily to his fingertips. Something there pricked his finger and sent a chill racing down his spine. He breathed in; his framed eyes focusing in on the ceiling tiles—titles, which he had already counted in 6.7 seconds to be 138 repeating tessellating patterns—and pulled. The twisted, glittering object slided out from the soft hidden skin, encased in a thin vile of fresh blood. A needle. He coughs, using the motion to slide his shoulders up and rapidly bring the needle into his hand, and his hands to his lap. He stared decided down, and slowly began methodically picking at his leg cuffs. It's a simple lock, that in all honesty, really insults his taste in escape artistry, and if he wanted, he could have easily freed himself within seconds.<p>

_Hell_, he could have freed himself during his grudgingly boring talk with his doctor—leapt right up. Smiled. Extended his hand and asked her a patronizingly simple riddle in French—and demand that if she couldn't answer it immediately he'd cut out her tongue. It wasn't like she was using it for anything other than triflingly mindless conversation. Or perhaps throw her back down into the intensive treatment chair and see how_ she_ likes it. Allow him his certainly phenomenal chance of getting into a doctor's head. He stopped himself mid-thought of this however, and shook his head chidingly. _She's far too shallow. Much too pedantic_, he concluded. So he simply flipped open his locks, and smoothly rose from his chair.

He stretched, flexing his shoulder blades and scanning the room with his glinting green eyes, idly fixing his hair, adjusting his glasses into perfect place. He was always fixing his glasses as a priority. _Not_ because he had some type of mental fixation about them like OCD. He was _fine_. He wasn't _insane._ He was The Riddler, and he had more control over his mind than the Warden did his own!

Then smiled as he closed his eyes again, and listened.

UNAUTHORIZED VIDEO CAMERA ACCESS:

_24.23. 11. 7A._

**PRISONER CELL:**_PATIENT J_

**CODE**:…*******...

**GRANTED.** **THANK YOU:_**DOCTOR HARLEEN QUINZEL_

She zoomed in on both Joker's cell and Edward's, and her eyes winded at what she saw next, jumping back from the monitor in alarm, her eyes glued to Joker's screen.

He was being attacked—_brutality!_ Some…someone was beating him up! Badly! Very, _very _badly! Her eyes were bewildered at the violent sight of Joker's head being smashed into the sink bowl—exploding the sink into huge, jaded shards that splattered out onto the floor. Blood gushed into the sink, oozing from his lips as…as he smiled…and his attacker just kept going—Joker's green hair was staining red from the force of his face into the sink's bloodied water. Bubbles were pushing up to the water's surface, popping as the air from Joker's throat lapsed into submerged laughter, his shoulders' shaking.

All at once she felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. Harleen's heart dropped at a million miles in her chest, hands rising to her mouth, clasping tight over her jaw, clenching, clutching—the buzzing in her chest rising to a drone of a swarm of killer bees that filled her flesh, beating against her ribcage, her spine, her head, up her throat—and she only pressed her hands to her mouth harder to stop from vomiting. She watched as Joker was kicked in the side, and suddenly she was on the ground. She had refused to put her hands out in front of her to break the fall, and her skirt ripped down its side. Her knees were skinned from the ancient tiles, and her files slid out of her hand, flapping all over the open flat station; she nearly leap for them again when a sharp pain flickering through her young, sensitive brain:

_There was no amount of paper work that could make this stop. No soothing words that could calm them both. Don't panic—don't panic._ She hooked up an arm, reaching wildly for the button on the intercom system while her heart clawed its way up her throat.

_Oh. Oh. My. God. Who is that? He's not authorized in here? -He's—he's going to kill him!—Is he? Wh—no…No…NO! Edward?—Did he set this up—but how—how did he know-?_

Harleen's fingers flew to the central intercom. "GUARDS. This is Harleen Quinzel! Alert! There is—hello? Oh go—Hello?—HELLO?"

Her voice only answered back to static. She went for the phone instead, fingers shaking as she picked the highest ranking name off the list —5582: LYLE BOLTON.

;Ring, riiiinnng….;

;Ring, riiiinnnng….;

Time seemed to slow down through the ringing of the telephone, and she watched with increasing nausea as Joker's attacker continued the extreme of his assault. All while Patient J was laughing of course. The attacker then spun Joker around to face the camera— but now the two seemed to be talking—or possibly just exchanging threats as Joker's mouth seemed to be only open into a continuous pealing of hysterical laughter. Laughter that, as far as Harleen could tell, only made his punishment worse.

;Ring, riiiiiinng…;

;Ring…; There was a faint click of someone picking up the other end of the line.

"Hello?" Harleen tried to keep from practically shrieking into the phone. Silence drummed in her ears, weighting in on her chest. Her throat felt pin-hole tight. "Hello?" She repeated desperately. "Goddammit! _Hello?"_

_"Tiger, Tyger, burning bright,"_

Edward's light, rhythmic vocal pattern crackled through the off-centered speaker's to Harleen's left that made her jump. She swallowed achingly, refusing to look away from the fight. Her slender fists curled into balls of fear and frustration. Her mood rapidly changed from fear to confusion- Where_ are the guards? Why is everything from 1922 or simply broken in this place?_ She practically had to dig her nails into her palm to hold herself back from punching the monitor—_What good would that do, Harleen? What good can you __ever__ do?_

She raked over the rest of the mildew encrusted buzzing security station._ How could this even pass to keep in the most horrible criminals of Gotham city when it can't even make a single freaking phone call to security?_

"in the forest of the night…,"

Harleen's ears picked up Edward's voice, but she couldn't bring herself to tear her eyes away from Joker's assault—she could only just imagine Edward sitting there, calmly in his chair, fingers hooked together as he contemplated his words. A hundred questions rushed to Harleen all at once in a scream of terror that set off fireworks in her brain of : _Why_ _Joker?_

"What immortal hand or eye,"Edward began patiently.

Harleen wanted to scream until her lungs gave out—jamming the phone down on the hook, and picking it back up didn't make an inch of difference. She was perhaps the only one that was baring witness to the break-in of Arkham Asylum. Harleen aimlessly pressed keys on the keyboard, twisted knobs. Nothing did any good. _Are the tapes frozen? How is this happening?_

His voice seemed to be so much closer now. Harleen shook her head. The speakers were old and cramped. She focused on dialing down the 17 person list of head officers from the other centers. Every dead end, or drop call was striking a match over Harleen's nerves. Joker's attack was getting so bloody that the camera seemed to stare back at her in nothing but red. Red on the walls, pooling on the floor, smearing on the lens.

;Ring, riiiiinnnng;

"…could frame thy fearful—" Edward's tone seemed to melt with passion over the word 'fearful'. Harleen fought a shiver. She could almost swear his voice was in the room with her… She twisted her fingers through the phone's hook and gave a rough pull. The wires snapped. Seeing the yellow tarnish, she realized that had to have been from the 70's, at _least. _But…somehow…the phone kept ringing.

;Ring, riiinnnnng;

Harleen's heart shuddered into every beat.

;Ring rinnnnning;

;Rinngg, rinnning;

"Symmetry," a soft voice whispered into her ear.

Harleen froze; her eyes widened as the light weight of a hand was dropped onto her shoulder, and she was swung around until she stared wide into the light, cunning emerald eyes of The Riddler.

With a click of his perfect teeth, and a snap his fingers, he clicked the line dead. Harleen screamed into the phone, throwing it out in fear and swinging it furiously at her patient. He easily ducked and caught the end of the phone, and wretched it from her shocked, weak grasp. He slowly reached a long, slender arm over her shoulder and placed it back on the hook. There was a quiet moment where nothing but Harleen's loud, hyperventilating breathing practically moved the flimsy fabric of Riddler's Asylum issued shirt.

He titled his head endearingly, smiling with just a bit of his teeth exposed, calmly articulating his breathing through his nose. He leaned towards Harleen until his forehead rested against hers. Sweat raced down her neck and back, her heart sinking into the building hysteria in her chest.

"I became extremely bored of waiting for you to come back, Miss Quinzel. And well," he gave a polite shrug. "These things do happen when _I'm_ bored."

"Wh…what have you_ done_, Edward?" Harleen gasped out, her body pressed as far as she could go against the front of the station.

"What have I done? Well, I've done a great many things in my life, and I must admit, it's rather _insulting_ of you to just sum it up in a single word like 'done'. However, if you are referring to my current position here, and why I am not in my chair, well, I simply got up and came to you, though I'm not surprised you consider someone getting up from a chair a complete _miracle_." He added, sounding rather bored.

Suddenly, a strange emotion flashed acrioss his face. He leaned harder against her, and then suddenly shifted back carefully; turning on his heel to raise his arms as he talked animatedly, "Really, have you _any_ other expanse in your vocabulary to christen such a moment as witnessing your first epiphany from _me?_"

With distance between them, Harleen tried to regain herself. "There is nothing to realize here Edward, except that you have damaged this security station, and somehow knew a password to, now you've managed to esc—"

Harleen stopped.

"_You._ You have it." She repeated scathingly, her chest heaving, her eyes wild.

"It's not proper to end your sentences with a preposition, Doctor." Edward beamed condescendingly. He took up the only chair at the station and sat down leisurely, crossing his legs_._

_Holy God—the guards aren't coming! He's so relaxed. How did he even get free—No, no, there's no time for that! What has he done? I…I have no idea…God, but he's Edward. He's never hurt me…I…might have a chance…this isn't Zsasz I'm dealing with here…I just have to play him at his own game..._

She was at the station, leading forward—silvery blonde strains cascading down from her loose pony-tail and into her eyes, framing the curled, overly-lipped pampered lips and flared nostrils of an _extremely _angry woman. Riddler adjusted himself—wrists not bound, to lean in again and face the challenge.

"What is it that you want from me, Doctor?" Edward smirked, resting his chin on his hands innocently.

Harleen resisted the urge to reach out her hand and tear at the back of his brown hair—to rip in from his skull until he practically _cried_ the answer.

"The _password_—you had it. You knew someone was in here. You blocked the whole system."_  
><em>  
>He tilted his head, a smirk switching to the left of his smile. "But Miss Quinzel, I've been talking to you this whole time." He answered breathlessly, parading a brittle façade of shock. He leaned back again, breaking the tension by rolling his shoulders—he lifted his arms up and rested both hands easily on the back of his neck as he leaned back in his chair, the picture of naivety. "I'm afraid I just don't know who you're talking about."<em><br>_  
>"Clever wording. So you knew it was happening!" Harleen banged her palms against the station, and Edward raised an eyebrow.<p>

"Very well. I, in fact, do know everything that's happening here, Miss Quinzel. Do you not?" His eyes narrowed, and his tone took on its own dark, cooling demeanor that she had never heard before. It almost sounded bitter, and twisted, ever threatening. Harleen had to fight to hold her glare against the sudden sinister words that flowed from the Riddler's mouth as easy as any of the previous killers she had encountered. "Can you accept that you don't know? How it feels to be so pathetically helpless in the eyes of someone such a me? But yet I didn't even _do_ anything. I just_ know_ something."_  
><em>  
>"Tell me the password." Harleen demanded again, her voice trying not to shake.<p>

Edward broke his eye contact and crossed his arms, and gazed into the cameras, seemly deaf to her demand. He noticed the papers lying sporadically about the room and, as if he couldn't help himself, he quickly picked up a handful and shuffled them, his eyes scanning the pages at an amazing rate that Harleen couldn't help but wish she could study into—if Joker wasn't possibly taking his last breaths.

"It's a pity, really." He's voice seemed to have a kind of cheerfulness to it once more; the playfulness of his banter just gilded the surface of that sudden reflect of threat that he seemed to be toying with, than really finding it necessary to use. " Joker is the only one of us that doesn't have a chance for rehabilitation, you know. Like Zsasz—just too violent, too deadly. Nope—it's a completely delusional chance. Hmmm, maybe it's not such a shame after all. He never had the patience for my ideas. Never the _serious_ mood. And to think—now he's going toe to toe with someone who's not even an inmate here." He clicked his tongue patronizingly. "That's very, very bad. That'll cost him another 8 months at least. Not that he was close to getting out anyway."_  
><em>  
>"Oh?" Harleen snapped, her teeth clenching. "Like <em>you<em>, for instance?"

Riddler froze, his eyes slowly lifting up from the page as if she had just insulted his intelligence. They seemed to burn with some kind of veiled passion. "Of course. I get out very, very soon."_  
><em>  
>"Edward, if you don't tell me what the <em>hell<em> is going on in that cell with my patient then I'll make it my life's work to insure than you_ never_ leave this place."

Riddler laughed, swept up his legs in a flourish onto the station, ankles crossing refinely, causing Harleen to jump back from the sudden motion.

"Oh doctor, doctor, doctor. Don't be so stupid as to think you have any type of power here. You're just interested in a select few patients that even those below my inept instruction can see. I know I'm not going to be leaving here for a while—once someone unauthorized has broken in, Sharp claims it to be a jail break on an inmate, and so all of us are punished."

Harleen ground her nails hard into the keyboard—_you can't touch him, you can't touch him— narcissistic psychosis—he can't comprehend what he's doing to the situation.  
><em>  
>"Why? <em>Why<em> are you doing this? Please. I'm just trying to help you—all of you—why won't you let me?"

"Oh, that's the whole ideal, Miss Quinzel. I know you have good intentions. In fact, and your one-track mind is far too narrow to comprehend this, but I'm actually trying to help you. Let that intruder kill Joker. It'll help _all_ of us."  
><em><br>_Harleen's stomach dropped."Kill? You _know_ that whoever's in there _is_ trying to_ kill_ him?"

"The road of good intentions doesn't have a guaranteed benevolent ending, my dear. You talk with each of us, but you don't understand what you're trying to get your slender hands around the throat of."

"What? I'm here to protect!" Harleen defended hotly, baffled by his accusation.

"Control."

"Understand!" She pleaded._  
><em>  
>"Manipulate." Riddler begrudged, and he lifted a wiry hand towards Joker's monitor screen. "And now towards your shining spot-light. And you think you've just found your star."<p>

Harleen swallowed a screech of rage, and jammed her hand into her coat pocket until she touched her most worrisome possession. The hard, sleek Batarang signal. She pulled it out and waved as it glittered warningly in the light. Her jaw locked, her eyes narrowing.

"Tell me, or I'll call him."

Edward gasped silently, knocking his feet off the station and flocking forward with a flabbergasted expression on his usually tight, smug lips. "Bravo! Bravo, Miss Quinzel! You're in line with Batman? And a doctor at Arkham? And looking out for Joker? Way to up the ante. Well—well don't just talk! _Do it!_ Call him! I want to see this. Though, of course,…you do realize you're calling Batman because Joker's in danger, don't you?"

Harleen gawked, and curled the signal back into her hand, and pressed it down within her palm. "He's—he's here to protect everyone! Anyone!"

"Oh, well that's perfectly obvious," Riddler rolled his eyes. "Of course he'll come. Of course he'll help. But think of it this way—remember what I said about drowning a man in an inch of water? Well it works with _blood_ too. Oh, and think of the attacker that you're trying to save your precious patient from as a man just like Batman." Riddler paused, biting his lower lip as he gave an elated deliberation to his usually smooth voice. "But without the whole…black and white judicial view." Edward then laughed softly, immersed in his freedom to follow Harleen's frantic actions like a puppet only he could tug the strings to. "Which is amazing irony, really!"

"What do you mean?"Harleen snapped, head-pounding for information._ If Batman couldn't get here quick enough—if the guards couldn't find a way in—_

"Ah, well, if you ever see his mask, you'll understand."Riddler gave a shrug. Harleen weighed the signal in her hand before secretly pushing it down. Edward eyed her for a moment, and Harleen could only watch back as she spotted the sleek muscles that made up his arms, and chest. She trusted her status of him; Edward Nimga wasn't a violent man. He could torcher with his mind, with his machines, but he wasn't _violent._ _He's so brillian_t, Harleen surmised, her heart twisting with the time she was wasting, daring herself not to turn to her back to the Riddler and just get a glimpse of Joker's face—just to make sure he was alive!—_but yet no one ever expect anything from him…How could this be happening? God…how could I have let this happen?_

* * *

><p>"OoooooOoohh…it…it looks like no one's comin'—whatwasyername again?"<p>

A low growl, a shot to the jaw. A blinding pain that, for some reason, made his vision dapper out for a second. Okay. _Now _things were really starting to hurt.

"I didn't think as growl as name, but hey, ANYTHING'S better than Calendar-Man—"

_"_Shut up! Why is no one coming?" The figured seemed to be questioning rhetorically now. Joker took the moment to breathe. "What is this place?"

"Arkham Asylum, kid." He gasped out, coughing in his hand and wiping the blood on masked man's trench coat.

"Insane Asylum? City's National landmark? Not..."

"A regular mental penitentiary for criminals? Well sheesh, You make it sound like this place should be a McDonald's or something, though, I'll tell ya, the foods probably better here," Joker giggled.

"Hurm," The figure muttered, letting go roughly and glancing about the cell. He quickly spotted the security camera. He reached up, and gave it a strong tap with his gloved hands. It flickered out silently, and then a wire shook loose. A yellow wire. The audio wire.

"So...since this is the part where we pause, I get to crack a few jokes and you get all deductive, now could I know your name?"

The man stared begrudgingly at the camera, tightening his shoulders before he finally gruffed out: "Rorschach."

"_Rorschach?" _Joker quipped loudly, but he stopped himself, repeating the name a few times with his swollen tongue.. " Oh….oh hey! Yeah! I remember hearing about you! Well slap my knee and call me a monkey's uncle! No wonder you disillusioned me into reminiscing about the ol' Bat! They say you're crazy! You're the crazy hero that kills over in your city! I thought I heard Ol' Riddly rambly about you once! Say, Inky, did Eddie give you some tip to come find some clown in Gotham? You guys do each others dirty laundry now? Ooooh! I know! Is it because you both have "R's" in your names? Oh whooh, from the smell of you, I think Riddely needs to step up on the detergent."

"Tip," The man's voice was as hard as gravel. "…was from man named Edward Nashton."

"Nup. Now that name has been changed. Edward Nigma. AKA: The Riddler, or Super Annoying Neon Green Pants—fer short."

The hands about chest of Joker's shirt suddenly loosened. And then tightened into a choke hold around his shirt's collar as the man known only as Rorschach tightened his hands about Joker's throat.

"HAHAHAH—HA-AH-HAHAHAHA! Looks like you're doing the filthy deed of a criminals work, bub!"

Rorschach glared daggers through his mask, the blots swirling around rapidly, as if this was the vigilante's last straw, and curtains were finally closing on Joker's one-man act…

* * *

><p>The Riddler sighed at the impasse between them. Harleen continued to hold her ground.<p>

"Miss Quinzel, I feel that, considering I doubt you were listening earlier, my poem did have significance."

"I have no time for your English lessons Edward." Harleen remarked snippily, her fists curling as she gazed out of the corner of her eye at the camera's monitor.

"Oh, but I think we have plenty of time now. So as I was saying—"

"Who is that?" Harleen harrowed her eyes to the screen, and Edward looked ataken back for a second by the malicious tint towards the masked man on camera.

"A vigilante from New York City named Rorschach."

"You brought him here?"

"I did no such thing, Doctor. But, him being here is the perfect example!" Riddler gently cleared his throat, and Harleen could only stare back at him infuriated.

"Heroes," The Riddler gave a simple, condescending shrug; narrow shoulders flexing, light splintering off of his glasses' frame. "They are so hell bent on taking down 'villains' that they themselves turn into monsters. You know the saying; I am sure, Miss Quinzel?_ "Ye who battle with monsters—"_

"Shall become one," Harleen finished softly. "Yes. I know the poem."

"But know the most infuriatingly mundane thing about it all, doctor?" Riddler rested his hands on his knee, and Harleen listened the methodical tapping of each finger its boney surface.

"Heroes get away with it. Just think…if there were no more heroes…no one constantly hurting us, abusing us, tossing us back into this decrepit facility—why, I'd think that you doctors would have a much smoother time helping us. Heroes are such a distraction from what is right in front of you, Doctor Quinzel. And they get away with it all—can't you believe the condemnation of it all?"

"I know all of you have a discrimination for Batman, but—" Harleen tried to continue on with Riddler's chat, but her heart was striking like a drum in her chest. _Where was Batman? He could be here by now! HE SHOULD BE HERE!_

"—But Batman didn't do this! Ro-…Rorschach, you said? Batman would never be so…brutal…so…mutilating!"

"Oh no?" Riddler threw back his head and laughed harshly, "If only we could show you the _scars_, Miss Quinzel. If only you understood the _pain_ behind being caught by someone like Batman. The whole point of showing you this predicament isn't just to showcase my personal dominance over the minds here and their weak motivations—but to show you that _heroes do not help anything._ Sure, Batman didn't do this to Joker, but he has before. And he'll keep doing it. Doing it to _all_ of us! That man you see in there is what happens when heroes lose their close-to-the-chest moral codes. And one day…Batman's_ going to kill us all. _Whether directly, or indirectly. Through acid..." he trailed off.

Harleen glowered silently, mashing random buttons in the hope of a sane voice returning the attempts.

"The whole idea of the symbolism of water is rebirth—but that Batman. By suffering some obviously traumatic event…he turned into a symbol of good, longevity, and protection. But his actions are a repercussion of palutinious water. He walked willingly into the water, and came back up. But those he's effecting? Even those he's protecting—take Chief Commissioner Gorgon's daughter for instance! The…password you used? He's _drowning_. Drowning them in the poisonous hope for Gotham City. Joker, Scarecrow, Penguin. It is through Batman that they've stayed under the water just an second too long." Edward paused, and slowly clicked his teeth over the next two words. "_In here._They weren't biased… they were reborn into something much, much more sinister. They were condemned to death..only to be forcefully resuscitated into madness. Batman's madness. Not knowing which way is up or which is down. Or the surface, or the bottomless pit of the depths.

Riddler continued to his conclusion: "So, to repeat myself: If only they were stopped. If only…heroes, didn't exist. If only there was no more Batman. It would put all of us at such ease. Perhaps, even someone like _Joker _could focus on something more productive."

"And you?" Harleen could only barely contain her tone.

"Oh, me? Doctor Quinzel, you must understand that, as I have mentioned, I would certainly not be in here for long. I've been thinking about going into the detective business myself."

"So that's your 'water' lesson." Harleen bristled. "But the...the other poem? The poem…you were saying…while…Joker was being attacked."

A soft, subtle smile. "Sometimes the line between prey, and predator is very thin. There's symmetry within the polar opposite of things—between criminals and Batman. Between the normality of people and the clinically insane. Between you and… Joker.

Harleen tried to force herself not to sound startled by such a statement. "What? Not with you?"

"Me, Miss Quinzel?" Quiet laughter. "No one can possibly be on the same parallel with a mind such as mine. I'm simply the poet. I don't belong in the poem."

"Just like you don't belong here?" Harleen snapped.

"Ah," Edward grinned smugly, and Harleen felt her fingers coiling possessively over her patient's file—she had snatched the Joker's session pages out of the air after she had fallen, and she made sure of it. She…for some odd reason…felt like she _needed_ them. They made her feel better. As if she had to protect them from the patient whom she honestly least expected anything from. She wanted to rush outside and dig, and dig until she found Joker's file, and read it again and again. _Similarity? Between them? A connection to help her research? How? ..And…what did Edward mean about Joker's hair? Swimming? Falling? Water? Acid?_ But she contended herself to swallowed back down her thudding heart.

"Well, well, well, Miss Quinzel. It only took you our whole session." He paused his eyes narrowing and his tone persuasively brightening as he tapped his fingers along the station and rubbed at the back of his neck with the other hand. "It indeed appears that you are finally catching on. So I'll give you this."

Riddler leaned over and quickly tapped a short code into the system's keyboard. The camera's created a humming, whirling sound-

* * *

><p>Joker and Rorschach suddenly looked hard as the camera hummed to life. It suddenly no longer reflected within Joker's cell back at the victim and abuser—but showed them a whole separate room. Once with a bewildered looking blonde woman in a white coat, and a slender, glasses wearing man dressed in the same looking inform as Rorschach's target.<p>

Harleen was the first to speak, nearly wanted to grip onto The Riddler's shirt and shake him. "Oh my god—Can they see us?" She reached for the screen. "Wait! Just stop! _Stop!"_ Frantically, she turned back to the Riddler. "…How…? How did you do that? _Why?_ Revenge? On Joker?"

"Ah no, no, no. I may have let a trash-can note go arye. But I never wanted him to—oh wait!" He paused in thought. "No. I really, really did want him to hurt Joker."

"Why?" Harleen baby blues blinked at him, large, and bewildered.

"Miss Quinzel, it's like Joker says: 'If you have to explain a joke, there is no joke.'"

"Oh, is that it now?" Harleen gritted her teeth. "I'm the _joke?"_

"If it helps, Harleen. I never met to hurt you in this. But, I can't say we haven't warned you about your…emotional investment?"

Harleen's eyes grew wild and ferocious. She gripped the Batarang in her hand tightly. _How did you get ahold of my notes?_ _Is there no information safe from this man?_

"Guards?," Edward suggested, not looking at the camera. "I believe Doctor Quinzel and I are done here." There was a second's pause, and, irritated by not hearing any response to _him_,_ THE RIDDLER_, being _free_, Edward glance at the screen—only to be overcome with a rare look of surprise as he came face to face with Joker as the clown peered into the camera screen.

_"Well hello Eddie,"_ Joker grinned, his gums salivating blood and his horrible, purple mug taking up the entire screen. "_And hellllllllooo nurse!~"_

Harleen glanced at the screen, and nearly wanted to scream from happiness. _He's alive—at least for now!_

"Joker! My God, what is going on? I am so sorry! I'm sending guards soon! It's-"

Riddler quickly cut her off as if he absently remembered something mundane. "Ah…that's right. That password merely flips the camera's viewing. Hm. Looks like I really did lock out the guards. Let's try something else—"

Harleen closed her eyes, trying to think_. _"The guards aren't coming Edward."

_"Oh, well then Inky, that_ _IS a problem—"_ Joker's face was soon removed from screen, replaced with the image of a white mask and a swirling black shadowing tracing over it.

Edward simply hummed approvingly at her, his light eyes sparkling green. "Be quiet clown! Can't you see Miss Quinzel is having the best mental work out she'd had since well…her entire life? Now where was I…oh yes! Oh, aren't they coming, Doctor? Well then, this poses quite a problem for you, Miss Quinzel."

"What do you mean, Edward?" Harleen asked warily, eyes to every locked exit door.

"I think you know exactly what I meant," Edward replied with a calm, attentive smile.

Harleen took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

Edward laughed smugly. "You have choice. A…moral dilemma, perhaps? You see, it's rather… I use one password that will let you into Joker's cell, so you go help your patient, and I'll stop repaying the same security tapes on-loop so the rest of the building will be alerted as well... Or you stop me from _escaping._"

Harleen's heart skipped a beat, and Joker's voice suddenly filled the entire room with laughter at Edward's ultimatum.  
><em><br>HAHA-HAHAHAHA-HO-HO-HA-HAHA-HEEHEE-HEEEE-HAHAHA_

Harleen watched in what seemed to be slow motion; Edward's raised his arm.  
><em><br>HAHAHAHAHAH-HA-HAHAHAHAHAHA-HEE_

Her heart raced; pounding with fear against her ribs. She was so confused, hopeless. She had to do something. A sharp prick seemed to bounce off her heart, and she gasped as she opened her eyes, her choice made.

She had to help Joker.  
><em><br>HAHAHAHAHAHAHA_

But yet—Joker's laughter…seemed to give her courage…she gripped the Batarang accordingly...

"One move," Edward whispered as he leaned forward, long fingers locked as he reached for her.

In a flash Harleen whipped out the glinting, sharp Batarang and stabbed it as hard as she could into the Riddler's chest. There was a flurry of yells and the thud of two bodies as the Riddler jerked from his chair, and scrabbled across the floor in pain. He gasped for the door, one of his glasses' lens cracked, his calmness completely unnerved. He reached slowly up to his chest, wrapped his fingers around the end of the Batarang, and pulled. It didn't come out; obstructed by its curved structure—but Edward had seen enough.

"Seven-Seven-Three-Two." He muttered, a hand to the large gash that the Batarang now struck through, blood rushing to form a decent sized circumference on his shirt. With a flick of his wrist a door seemed to open and he disappeared. Harleen's hands shook, and when she took a step to chase after him, she simply sank to the floor, completely stunned by what she had just done to her patient.

At that very moment, the loudest alarm Harleen had ever heard seemed to shake the very floor beneath her. She seemed to stay on her hands and knees for a long time. When she finally had the nerve to look up, the mask from the camera was gone. The intercom system rang out for different squads and protocols as if this whole event had just started. Harleen forced herself out of her daze, and sprinted down the towards Joker cell—shoving other doctors, guards and even GPD officers out of her way.

She was the first one to throw open the unlocked cell— her vision bombarded by broken pipe, puddles of water, the dust of brick, the smell of cooling blood and the sewer. Harleen quickly smashed the door shut when she saw the horrible, crazed hero standing in the corner near the entrance he had created. He seemed to be staring straight into the darkness of the undergrounds. Joker lay as askew on the floor; his head completely garnished in blood, his shirt ripped to revel black, purpleish spots. Harleen pressed her hands to her trembling lips.

"Joker!" Harleen gasped, bravely pounding past to get to her patient, arms out stretched, her heart breaking at a complete loss of what to do. Joker's eyes were closed, his breathing shallow and labored. "Oh God," Harleen cried, dropping to her knees.

"Can you confirm this man is a mass-murderer called 'Joker'?" The low voice of the distant figure asked. Harleen couldn't bring herself to turn to look at him, her eyes forever locked, horrified, downwards.

"Yes! _God damn it! _Yes! He's my patient you- you _animal!_ How could you _do_ such a thing?"

"He is a criminal. Although the tip was fraud, punishment still had justification."

Carefully, and not thinking about it perhaps as much as she should have, Harleen lifted Joker's head and cradled it in her lap, fingers twitching from touching his skin, her fingertips feeling as if they were on fire, her heart threatening to leap out of her mouth. "_So what?_ So god damn _what?"_ Harleen shrieked. "What if he _dies?_ What if I'm _fired?_ What about- what about _Nigma?"_

"My fault. Am going after him." The gravelly voice replied from the darkness. Harleen snapped, and got a hold of herself. _If he did this to Joker….he'd certainly __murder__ Edward._

"Don't!" Harleen cried alarmingly, nearly reaching out to stop the retreating figure herself.

"Have been used, and the source will be punished."

"Please!" Harleen begged, "Just go back to your city! Forget about this! We have our—" She didn't want to say it, _don't say it, he didn't come, don't say it_, "—own hero!"

"Batman." The masked man deadpanned monotously. He paused in his menacing stride, his head titling back towards the doctor. " I've been told. Understood if city's own civilian wants reassurance from central corrupt hero. Fine. Am leaving. Not sorry for mess."

And, once again, the Asylum swallowed up another piece of insanity. The man was gone.

Harleen slowly turned to stare back at her patient, raising a single finger to wipe the ripped hair and blood from his forehead. She was just barely placing pressure on his skin when his electric green eyes popped open wide, his pupil completely blown. He started talking even before his eyes registered upon her. Slowly, he turned his head to look at her, and when he smiled, his teeth gleamed a dark maroon and blood trickled and pooled out from his cheek.

"_Men!_ Just like them to come in here, just take what they want, and _rip_ _yer heart to shreds!"_Joker wailed hysterically, gasping for air between his laughs, that then rattled into a choking cough—blood fell in massive droplets along Harleen's skirt. The cell's door slammed open—staff, GPD and guards pouring in.

"But at least I've got you, Harley—oops. I mean, Doctor Quinzel." Joker smiled breezily—blood sliding out through his teeth—his tongue a strange, black colour. "I've been looking forward to getting more time with you. I'll have to thank Eddie for bringing us closer together_._" Harleen was speechless at his words; she closed her eyes as the medical squad swarmed over them—Joker's voice soon lost in the sound of wailing alarms and endless echoes of static police walkie-talkies.

* * *

><p><strong>EAN<strong>_**:**__ I love you Riddly, which is why I must stab you. 3 __**And, hey, these last two parts of this sub-plot story climax together 20 pages**__…so I really __**am**__ trying here guys, I'm just so sorry for the wait. I know it's been a while, but I'm been workin' hard for ya'all. Soon this sub-plot will be over an it'll be back to even more characters__**,(like Hush, Bane, Catwoman Clayface, ect, more interviews, and this time, even more Joker. Part 3 will be up tomorrow. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR STICKING WITH ME! ;-;  
><strong>_

_Perhaps…let me know what you think?_**  
><strong>


	16. Tuesday Night Hospital Vist

**AN:** _Kay kept a promise for once! Ending part of Plot!Patient J. More interviews will follow._

* * *

><p>It was late into the night that Harleen stayed—digging in her heels and practically refusing to eat or drink anything since Riddler's escape. She, of course, wasn't a medical doctor—and so she had to wait painstakingly outside of the Medical Wing's Intensive care room. The final analysis was that Joker had sustained severe cranial trauma, as well as a broken wrist, several broken ribs, and an over-all generalization of bruised, strained and damaged muscles throughout his body. She spent a few exasperating hours eyeing the clock as she re-counting her session with Edward Nigma to the time of his escape to Warden Sharp, who simply wanted to know two basic questions (and none that actually seemed to concern his inmates.) :<p>

_How did Riddler get such a password?_

_Where was he now?_

Harleen couldn't believe his complete focus on the escapist that had caused so much commotion to the security staff, a very well-known inmate, and his newest doctor! She clenched her clipboard hard as she could when she was forced to hand over all of her previous session files. Outside the door to his office, Harleen avoided the suddenly over-friendly doctors and the GPD. She couldn't trust herself to be around police—even though she felt she was in danger at the time, she did just _stab_ a man.

Her thoughts whirled and twisted in her skull…the buzzing sensation suddenly gone, leaving her feeling strangely empty and lost. But one thing was clear to her: _I can't let this happen anymore. I can't be the only one that cares. I can't let this torment and abuse and lack of proper equipment go on…I have to do something. I have to stop relying on a guard, or Warden Sharp, or the doctors, or…or even Batman. I have to go back to gym on my days off—and I have to start protecting my patients._

With a flare of her heel, Harleen Quinzel went into the bathroom, replied her make-up, took one, long, confident look in the mirror, and then stride back into the hall and towards the Intensive Care. Minutes slowly stretched into hours, and finally the medical team wheeled Joker's battered form out an into a private room. She couldn't stop them from strapping him back down—that they had given him enough anesthesia that he'd be out for days it seemed—but they kept giving her bull that he was resistant to chemicals because of his blood make-up. Harleen simply scowled and placed herself in a chair beside his bed for the night watch, not believing a word of it.

It was only after everyone had left that the room grew still and quiet except for her broken patient's labored breathing. It was only then, after she checked and double checked that no one would be coming around that Harleen curled up into a ball on the seat of the chair, and cried.

A whooshing sound disturbed the silence, and Harleen gasped wide awake, eyes slittering the darkness. The soft, guilty sheen of a smooth black body-suit wavered through the drifting shadows of the moonlight and clouds over-head. Harleen's soft, monotone voice reached through the darkness.

"You were late." She wasted no time, instantly accusing, hoping her tone conveyed the internal speech she had been dying to say ever since she sat down. She narrowed her eyes.

The midnight wind seemed to draft upward in a flurry, causing a blurring effect that rolling across the walls. Harleen had no idea where to direct her voice again as she waited. The pause seemed eternal.

Finally, a deep voice from the darkness wafted through the shadows and moonlight towards the left corner.

"Doctor Quinzel I—" Batman began gruffly, his voice solid, yet, subtly sincere.

"_YOU_ WERE _LATE!"_ She cried, pointing a finger into the darkness uselessly. She leaned her head into her hands to stop herself from sobbing. She was so tired; she couldn't imagine crying any longer. She had been contemplating this feeling all day, even as she moved to attack her patient, even as she watched the spiraling of all her notes falling around her out of the sky, just out of her grasp. It all finally reached a breaking point as she held patient J's battered face in her lap. She had _failed_. Failed as a doctor. Failed as a protector. Failed as a caregiver. Failed her job, the people of Gotham. Failed to protect her patient, failed to stop the escape of a second…

"Yer too late, Bats," Harleen snapped warily, her blue eyes darkening with gentle purple circles under her eyes, her mascara running down her face. Batman's jaw locked as she noticed Harleen's hand inches away from the unconscious man that had slaughtered a young Jason Todd. He clenched his teeth within the mask but managed out:

"It is helps you, Doctor. I've brought the best doctor I know to, not just take care of Joker, but to help you, and only you here. His name is Doctor Thomas Elliot. Please. I know I was late. But if there's anything I can do for you, at least allow his admittance for Joker's treatment." He tossed over a new Batarang signal as well.

_I can take care of him and any of my patients on my own!_ Harleen glowered internally, but outwards she only sighed. "Fine." Was all she quipped, sniffling. "But take yer stupid toy, okay? I don't want it."

"Keep it. It'll reset after midnight." Batman paused deliberately, weighing the silence. "I won't be late again. Elliot will be here tomorrow." He declared quietly. "And Doctor Quinzel, please do not worry. Riddler will be found. He always leads a trail back to himself. He can't—"

"—help it," Harleen finished for him, her voice nearly breaking. "I know. I know! I'm his goddamn _psychiatrist! _Don't you think I _understand?_" She wanted to scream at him louder, wanted to pound her fists against him and cry and bite and scratch his mask off just so she could get at his flesh—she pulled her eyes closed tightly. She slowly turned toward Joker, and opened her eyes to take in his sleeping form. It was just so strange to see _Joker_ of all patients asleep. It had to be the only time where he wasn't smiling—and that made her feel surprisingly…upset.

"Just, God. Just go. Just go away. But find Edward. And bring him back as pacifically as possible. Do you understand me, Bats? Don't hurt my patient."

"He'll be back by tomorrow morning, Miss Quinzel. He has the Batarang in him deeply, and I doubt it'll be able to remove it properly without excruciating amounts of pain. I'll track him this way."

Harleen looked up at him with big, round watery blue eyes. "Oh god. I can't believe I did that," she whispered out. "I was just so scared. But I knew he wouldn't hurt me. I knew that."

"That'll stay between us for self-defensive purposes on your case, Doctor. Fear makes us do many things we normally wouldn't, or think outside of a moral code. Anyway, I must insist that you go home and get some real sleep. Joker is someone that you never want to let your guard down around—even if his is."

There was a shift in the silence, and Harleen had the funniest feeling that Batman had just slipped away from the closest window thinking he was a sly as a The Riddler himself. She then gasped slightly, a tremor riding up her arm as she twisted to look at the bed, to see her hand just inches from her patient's glaringly pale white one; almost as if a faint pass of contact had touched her. She slowly slid her hand away, and then used both of her feet to push the rolling chair away from the bedside as well until her back bumped into the wall—awakening there all the bruises from her session with Harvey Dent. She spent a long time after that simply looking back and forth from her patient's heart-rate monitor, and the window; undecidingly nervous about not knowing why her hand had been so close to touching her most notorious killer, or that Batman would be watching her _try _to.

* * *

><p><strong>EAN:<strong> _Okay, so that plot movingness is over! Now Harleen will start even more hospitalized Joker sessions, and more patients will be coming in as well. And Doctor Thomas Elliot? Hm. Interesting! Hmm…oh, and don't worry, Riddler will be back. Hehehehehh. And sorry for this being so short…guess I'm resorting back to my four-page ideal from chapter one. Or so much for waiting and being lovely, lovelies!  
><em>


	17. Wednesday: Patient J: Connection

**AN:** Hello all. **Internet's back.** ***lays chocolate, roses, and hugs at everyone's feet.*** Let's get this ball rolling again, shall we? I know this chapter seems long. It is. BUT, it's no more shoehorned characters, no more of my randomness. **Just straight Harleen and Joker **for their session right here. **I hope you enjoy my very first attempt at their "contact."** **More interviews, and I do mean, REAL other patient interviews like before, are up next.** Special thanks to **Lyssian, TitainsGirl1234** (Char! *waves*!) and **DreamorNightmare** for helping me get my head back. **DreamorNightmare,**I'm sorry I couldn't answer you message to me tonight sweetheart, but the second I read it, I just knew this chapter was calling to be done tonight. This one's for you. And thank you!

* * *

><p>The low, soft pulse from the heart monitor flashed into the solitary, dim, patient care room with a steady, light red glow. The sun was due to rise in a little less than two hours, although one wouldn't be able to tell with the skittering, starry dampness that settled across Arkham Island, coiling around the mossy, thick trees, ragged cliffs and lapping up the misty, guttered spray from the shore line like a hibernating water moccasin. The man lying in the bed carefully pulled and pushed the muscles in his neck back and forth, the moonlight radiating off of his stark white skin, cooling down his feverish body with dark droplets of sweat, which now, strangely, seemed to be leaking from the corners of his misty green eyes.<p>

He couldn't move his hands. Each wrist was bound tightly with a shiny, silver metal cufflink that connected him to the rails that ran up and down the bed's sides. His ankles were tied as well, slowly; he moved each muscle, sliding the movement down his neck to his bare chest like a convulsion. He practiced nudging his bloody, heavily bandaged sides against the rails that caged him. After a while, he pulled in a deep breath that burned all the way down to his pelvis, and gave his legs a final kick before the heart monitor made a loud, erratic sound and all the energy he had left was gone.

He blacked out.

When he finally came to, the sun was just peaking up and through his window, but he couldn't help but roll his eyes at it, and shift uncomfortably. _So it was true,_ The Joker thought with an inward smile, as he couldn't get his lips to cooperate. _The laugh really is on me…_

The oxygen mask stuck humidly to his face, forcing the stale, desensitized oxygen into his battered ribcage. Everything in his view around him came in with a fuzzy, indistinct focus. A single window, a single chair, a single…_oops, nope…silly me, that's it! _Joker shook his head, his thoughts almost as bad as his eye sight. _Jeez, this place really has no idea how to treat a victim. Everything all alone and cast-aside. It's so depressing! It makes a guy feel really…,_ he flicked his eyes eerily around for a potential warm body_…Lonely for company._

He shook his chains, going right back to plan T. Make noise. Maybe even try and set off another bodily convulsion—it was better to seek attention than lie here in all this _pain._ Maybe if he feigned a heart attack, or threw up a little in his tubes, he could get someone's attention. It had been nearly a week if he could count his previous losses of consciousness—_and woo-boy, there_ _was_ alot _of_ _those!—_since he had last seen…well anybody! Not even a friendly hallucination to pass the slow time had visited him.

Really, it was just _ridiculous_. Here he was, a world renowned killer, and no one wanted to check on _him?_ _No one wants to poke me and prod me and rub me all over?_ Joker quirked an eyebrow, too weak to look towards the door to his left, and far out of his peripheral vision. _Not even a fun lil' dissection? A lobotomy? A colonoscopy? No takers?  
><em>

When _had _he last seen a doctor? Or a nurse? Joker wanted to laugh at the depravity of his situation. The medial team here provided little emotional or physical help even to a physically ill patient.

Of course, when he tried to laugh a wave of pain split down his rips as he coughed; the remains of the futile attempt to release his precious laughter. He sweated and shivered at the same time, trembles fuming up his arms and down his legs. Each bead of sweat rolled down his ribs and seeped into the moist path that he lay in. The liquid kept eating away at the healing skin and easily re-opened any and all of his scratches and cuts along his spine that soon gave way to maddening inching and festering, infectious puss, and that was really annoying. The cold was the worst though. Joker was used to being uncomfortable, used to pain, in fact, thinking of a punch from Bats right at this very moment nearly made him reminisce about a good, hearty fight before…but the cold, whether from his rising temperature in his head, or the chill of the room was causing the feeling in his toes, fingers and legs to go numb. Joker hated that feeling more than anything.

He _hated_ to feel _nothing._

The numbing of his body made him feel so completely paralyzed and subdued…it was like he was falling into some type of freezing, unfathomable pool inside of himself, crushing his lungs, pulling him straight down over his head…the feeling was hauntingly familiar yet distant all at once…had he been drowning before? By Bats perhaps? He took a breath in to free himself from the nothing, and he was greeted with another slap of plain that stirred the nausea in his stomach. Joker closed his eyes, and tried to imagine the warmth of something. Of anything. A cow. A dog. A body. A human body. Dead? No..no…_alive._ _Yes, that was it…,_ he inwardly smiled_…a human body. Soft and warm…and full of blood, with wide blue eyes and a blond pony-tail…_He licked his lips, his eyes snapping open.

He had pictured his doctor. No, no not his ridiculous medical staff, but _his_ doctor! Now why did he think of _her?_ Joker furrowed his brows weakly, trying to lift himself off the mattress to no avail. He could feel the slow rip of a wound bursting open He blinked as he imagined the oozing blood and blackness rushing from his body, if only he could see it…, he couldn't bring himself to shake his head again under the notion that he wanted consciousness for a while longer…what was he thinking about again? Ah, yes, his doctor. _What was her name? Haley? Hazel? Ah that's right,_ he sighed, picturing her bright blue eyes that would look ever so lovely with stains of purple around the edges. _Harley. Harleen Quinzel._

A little coil fired up in his stomach that nearly made the Joker physically sick with enlightenment. It hit the roof of his mouth with an acidic burn that lingered down his throat. He moaned as pitifully as he could, trying to seek some attention. The idea was stuck deep in his brain now. _Harleen._ _If I could just get her to come…she'd do something…she'd… that wonderfully, wretched lil' thing…she'd take care of me._ He faintly recalled being held in her lap as he faded with blood-loss, laughing his beautiful laugh of course…and staring up into the pathetically tear-filled eyes of that stupid, ignorant lil'… peach. The Joker laughed a wheezy noise that sounded more like a gasp. _Harley_, Joker snapped internally_…where are you? At least you'd have the common decency to change my sheets!_ He grumbled. _Well, that is, if I had any._ He stared down at his bare body, clad except for a cut-off pair of sterilized white shorts, and shivered._  
><em>  
>He was so cold.<p>

Click. The door to his hospital room pig-cell was parted open, and the tall built form of a man threw itself across the wall in a shadow. Through the burning that seemed to be scalding his dirty, emerald hair and racing towards his brain, Joker tried his best to ignore the intruder as quietly as possible. He blinked, embracing the paralyzing darkness behind his eyes until a sudden firm, wide grasp turned his jaw upwards with a striking warmth. The hand gently turned his jaw from side to side, and then two broad warm fingers stretched out to find the thudding, sporadic pulse at Joker's throat, and there they remained.

Curious, Joker cracked open a blood-shot eye and managed to study a close up of the clean-shaven man before him, a perturbing shock to the apathetic, grouchy guards of the Asylum. Elliot was the name on the silver name-tag that leaned in from the pale sergeant's over coat.

And just like that, the warmth was gone. The man pulled up a chair beside the bed and clasped his hands together tightly, resting his chin on his fingers as he stared intently at the green-haired lunatic. Joker only wished he could smile at him. And then cut his throat for taking his only source of heat away from him for what felt like _weeks._The Joker simply settled for rolling his eyes slowly—and repeating this action over and over, reveling in the bright white dots that riddled his vision and the dizziness he created for himself in his own little world of hurt.

"Elliot." The single word dropped into the air like a round smooth stone to a stagnate lake. The sound of another person's voice gripped the Joker back into focus, though, he wasn't too particularly caring. All the medical staff acted the same—silent, quick and shaky. Joker internally smiled again. The nurses were always good for a laugh. Joker merely had to stick out his purple tongue and say the first bubbling, soggy notes of "Ahhh" before they'd practically be shoving each other out the door.

_OoooOOOoh!_ But Men! Male nurses, male doctors, were something of a different breed. Oh sure, he'd have the occasional bitch who'd slap him for his naughty hands or spit words of venom in his face with threat-less vengeance. But men are the _best._ They acted like they had such nerve, such control—control, control, control, _everyone's_ all about _control!_—Bah, what fun is _that?_ _—_But Joker could see it. The shifting of a jaw, the setting of thin, nervous lips. People are so easy to read.

Men are so easy to read.

The doctor called Elliot let his jaw hinge open slightly, and Joker noticed the healthy, pale, pinkness of his tongue each time he formed a word. It was frankly, unsightly. Nearly as unsightly as his hair. The man's hair was a strange, burnt, blistering shade of orange that was gelled neatly back. But that tongue thing- Must be some kind of habit. He wanted to rip it out. It was with this thought in mind that Joker only looked at Elliot for as he spoke. Joker continued to rattle his chains.

"You're probably very unhappy with your current state right now," Elliot calm, warm voice continued with just the hint of a smile. Joker wanted to return the quip with some shot about how the doctor himself must be high on buckets of happy-juice from all the dead-brain patients he's had to work on, but his mouth wouldn't move.

"I can fix that of course," This Elliot guy seemed to only speak in bursts. "That's what I do. Fix things. Bones. Bodies. Brains. Human error. But for you. You, I have a deal that only you can fix with me."

Joker tried to tilt his head ever so slightly, but the pain that wrecked through his brain was too much, and he could feel his eyelid sag in frustration. His way of talking remained Joker of something…hmm…but what?

Or who?

"I've been flown in to be your doctor, but, of course, I'm only going to offer you suggestions. I don't know how to get people like you to listen. So I'm going to do what I have to do, and get out." He narrowed his crystal blue eyes into the Joker's fevering green. "Don't think you can hurt me, clown. I have nothing but number one to look out for me now. So don't get funny. Or I can make this…narrow slide of uncomfortableness, shall we call it? A literal living hell."

Ah, Joker's hazy thoughts clicked. This guy reminded him of how the criminal under-world worked. Maybe he _could _get along with the burnt orange.

"Right now you're set for quite a while of bed rest and very limited outside access. I'm afraid the only person that can see you will be myself, Sharp, and your psychiatrist. You have an extremely weak immune system right now. That's why no one has been allowed in."

Suddenly Elliot reached out and gripped the Joker's jaw again, and seemed to train his eyes over all the muscles in Joker's face. Joker giggled and a drop of blood started to leak out of his nostril. Elliot huffed, and raked a thumb that sped the blood away. "Nod if you agree with me, clown."

Joker blinked dully and did. Elliot only let go when he felt the up and down of Joker's gesture.

"I'm keeping my eye on you. You and those other sick patients, and those obsessed doctors, God, I don't know why people bother with lost causes like you," Elliot ducked in lower, his mouth practically pressing into Joker's oxygen mask. If Joker had had the strength, he would have puckered his lips in an effort to get his mouth to work with him. The man now was so close, his neck so vulnerable. The clean, minty scent from the man's cologne struck his nose. It was the closest he had been to any type of freshness in a long, long time…since well, his last trip out of Gotham City. The green, precious city of Metropolis rang clear in his head. Joker would have given anything to have the plastic barrier between him and Elliot removed. He could bite through it, perhaps, but it'd take too much time. But being this close and so out of control was leading Joker to a greedy feeling of_ taking _again…he shook his head.

"You have something you need right now?" Elliot's cool, dry stare followed Joker's motion with alert severance. "Because I'm not going to get it for you."

Joker continued to shake himself dizzy. "Unless, of course, I'm graced by the voice of the legendary Crown Prince of Crime." Elliot's eyes seemed to sparkle for a second with the intent of something beyond the medical service. Something that spoke of the outside world, or perhaps even freedom…of chaos. Joker felt his attention of his doc suddenly becoming interesting.

After a quiet moment, Elliot huffed again, and returned to his feet. "I guess you really don't talk to people unless you want too. Well, don't worry. You'll talk to me. My offer to you isn't over yet. If you play your part."

Joker leaned back into his soiled mattress, and wished his could cross his arms literally. Or had the gull to request a blanket. But he knew neither one would be practically in his state. Elliot made for the door, only to take step back in surprise when it banged out to reveal a particularly eye-catching little blonde. The woman looked him up and down before her own blue.

"What are you doing in here?" Her voice contracted her soft, curvy, lean figure like a sharp rock striking flint. A dark, smoldering fire was already in her eyes, and Elliot didn't even know her name yet. Usually it took at least five minutes before a woman would fall madly in love with him or want him dead. But this took less than five seconds.

He liked her already.

"Tch,'' The good doctor swung around as if pricked by his own needle, allowing her inside. "Look, Miss—"

"_Doctor,"_ Harleen snapped, "It's _Doctor_ Harleen Quinzel,"

Elliot looked surprised for a moment, that easy smile wavering on his surprisingly tan features. "Yes, of course. Doctor Quinzel. Joker's psychiatrist yes? I just—"

Harleen strutted into the room, taking command of Joker's vital signs and tossing Elliot's freshly written chart board at him.

"Hey! Take it easy!"

"That depends, are you going easy on my patient?" The small blonde snapped angrily, "I've had to wait over 73 hours to see him—only to find you, the "amazing" doctor that's supposed to be helping him," Elliot watched as the blonde suddenly seemed to take on the hissing of a female cat, hair rising in fury. "And I come in here to find him without even a BLANKET?"

Elliot swallowed, taken back. Gotham girls certainly were different than the easy-swingers of Metropolis. But he couldn't bite back his own indifference at threatening murderers and killers.

"Look, I know you care for these," his tongue nearly spat out the word 'creeps' but thankfully he didn't seem to even need to find a proper word for them. He leaped to his next train of thought. "I know you don't care for Batman, but he's honestly doing a huge favor for you here. I am the best practicing doctor from where I'm from."

"Then go back to whenever it is you came from," Harleen deadpanned, snapping her notes shut.

"Metropolis," Elliot grimaced, "And if only I could."

"Why won't you?" Harleen glared. From in-between them, Joker's eyes flickered back and forth as if he was watching two people toss a live grenade.

"It's…complicated?" Elliot shrugged dismissively, and ran a hand through his short, orange hair. "Doctor Quinzell, I'm sorry. I really don't want to start off on the wrong foot here." Elliot made for the door; chart in hand, that same, relentless smile on his face.

"I need to speak with my patient now, Doctor—"

"You can call me Tommy, Miss Quinzel. And I highly doubt you'll get far. I've been with him for nearly twenty minutes and I'm sure he's catatonic."

Harleen gave a surprising glare to her patient, and then snapped back to Elliot. "I'm sorry; I'll continue working with him on that. He has a bit of a nerve about who he sometimes speaks too."

"Hah," Elliot huffed, shaking his head. "Okay. But, I've been working with head injuries all my life. I think I know what I'm talking about."

Harleen turned on her heel. She just wanted to set fire to him with her eyes. Who was this man? Talking to her like _she_ didn't know he patient! In here without_ her_ permission? Disregarding the wishes of _her _patient? Not calling her _doctor?_ _DOCTOR! Is it THAT hard to understand?_ Harleen wanted to scream through the intercom speakers childishly: _I AM A DOCTOR!_

Her back was to him already, "Elliot, shut up and get out. You're already causing my patient discomfort and I'm late for my session with him. So if _you'd be so kind?_"

Harleen spat out the last four words with such a hate that Elliot thought about locking that damn door behind him and leaving her in there with her wacko, but he couldn't help but catch a glimpse of her perfect back side. And then his eyes fell upon the look that The Joker was giving her, and his heart dropped. Joker met his Thomas Elliot's eyes for a spit second before Elliot took in full view of a Joker Smile. It was wide, bloody, and restlessly homicidal.  
><em><br>Finally_, Joker wanted to laugh! His mouth was back! And just in time! Harleen avoided all eye contact with Thomas Elliot as she shut the door. Great. Now she'd yet again be dealing with another annoying, prejudice doctor during her lunch breaks. But that really didn't matter now.

Finally, finally rested her eyes to her patient. A strange surge of relief ran through her—but this time, it seemed stronger, even had a certain taste to it, like sweetness that churned the butterflies in her stomach and melted them. She was delighted when Edward Nigma was safely returned, worse for wear, but it was _Joker_ that really made her nervous. So much damage, so much red-tape. She had felt his blood on her hands, held him in her lap…she couldn't help but feel a bit more intimate with this patient. He was just such…a charismatic mystery.

The sun that had been rising into the room now lit the white, slightly dusty walls and fed a little fraction of what might be called heat into the titles. It wasn't pretty, but it was certainly better than Joker's cell or any other patient's for that matter. Harleen stole back her chair from those days before when she had just sat watching her patient's drug laced sleep. _There really wasn't else much to do_, she told herself. Every other area was on complete lock down since Riddler's escape. It was completely normal for a doctor to be concerned.

Fixing her skirt, she smoothly sat down and crossed her legs, happy at her progress of toning. She couldn't help but show them off a little now. She tried to keep as professional as she possibly could, but it was sometimes a little hard. Besides, she was secretly breaking all the rules now. And, furthermore, perhaps even practically, she had lost contact with all of her close friends (and most of _Gotham Nightly_) with her frantic work over all of her patients. Nothing else seemed to really matter now. And now, it was schizophrenics and serial murderers that she had to show off her legs to, well, by God, it was _something _for her to be proud off!

From behind his mask, Joker never broke his first smile after what seemed to be a horrible bout of not smiling. Harleen fixed her pen, pulling a blonde strain behind one ear.

"Good morning Joker. You seem to be in a pleasant mood since your event, shall we call it. How are you feeling?"

Joker wanted to sit up, to stare eye to eye with this innocent little cupcake of ignorance that had been randomly thrown to the dogs of Arkham, but all he could do was flex his jaw, and speak as raggedly as he could. He really wasn't hamming thing up too much though, everything did hurt with spectacular streaks of floating by unconsciousness.

"I'm just so delighted to see you, Doctor Quinny," Joker's smile twitched and then fell into partially fake exhaustion, and he watched as her face turned and folded at his very will. Oh yes, finally getting some _help_ around here was going to be a real _treat._

Harleen shifted, and force her hands to not leap her to mouth at his voice; God, what had happened to the happy, masterful spark of charm that coloured his every syllable? She quickly jotted down that her patient had received very mal-care, possibly no water directly to his throat.

"Before we begin, would you like some water?"

Joker's simply closed his eyes. "Begin?" He croaked. "I'm awfully sorry Doc. But I really don't feel like chatting today. I'm sure you'd understand why."

Harleen took this sharp stab of guilt like a punch to the gut.

After a silence, Joker peeked open one eye, just to make sure she was here and he wasn't just imaging that she was. Sometimes he got confused like that.

"Oh," Harleen blinked and a pale blushed coloured her cheeks as she realized that she had been simply staring at her patient. "I'm sorry, I just…I just thought you'd like some company then."

"Company," Joker hoarsely echoed, hiding his silent chuckle, "Sure."

"Unless you'd rather not?" Harleen's tone suddenly sounded a teensy bit sad. Joker forced himself not to smile. He could make her feel _sad._

"Hmmm?" He dragged out the pause just a bit too long. "No, no, you're fine." He sighed to what he hoped sounded calm and peaceful. He never was good at this kind of thing. "This is…" He leaned over weakly, making sure that she was watching him as he winked. _"Nice."_

"Like our second session?" Harleen hid her small smile in the side of her hand. She continued to write now, but slowly and softly, trying her best to make sure he couldn't see. She wasn't sure why though, as the patient had already counted as a relaxed, confidential one. Maybe she'd just save his words later…for…for if something new developed.

"Now why are you hiding your lips, Doc? That's no fun. Come on, all I've had to wake up to are these white walls and mister Orange Tan over there. I could use a smile," Joker wanted to lift his arms in dramatic jester, but he was caught off guard by something quite different.

Laughter. Harleen was laughing—or well, giggling some demure, ridiculously, frilly giggle, but a laugh never the less! Joker's next smile seemed to rise to his lips without pain. He could make her _laugh._

It was short, but Harleen regained herself quickly. "Oh goodness," she bipped, "I am so sorry. It's just—it's just," She snickered again, "He really _does_look like a Burnt Orange."

Joker simply blinked in agreement, that same numbness taking over from his legs now as he fought off the cold. Was the time now? _No,_ he decided to himself,_ no. Too fast. Too soon to ask for help. _He slowly, and painfully, flexed his toes, and contented himself to pumping his fists on either hand discreetly to keep the blood flowing. _Stupid girl,_ he lamented. _She mentioned me not having a blanket and STILL has yet to get me one, gawking at me like that?_

Harleen bent down to replace her note pad, and studied Joker's room again to check if anything needed to be added, or replaced, but it seemed pretty bare and equally lonely.

Lonely. The icy word sent a chill down her spine, and she popped back up to see that Joker had closed his eyes again, his breathing hitched and flat as he fought the pain he was in. Knowing he couldn't see, she frowned. She had already begged for more painkillers, but Elliot put that to a halt all too quick. Next time, she just had to sneak them in. It'd be breaking a rule, but this was just too much. She also probably has to secretly clean his room too. It was true that no one else was allowed in, but a patient's hygiene wasn't usually the top concern at Arkham, treated like the caged animals that they were expected to be.

She watched Joker slowly move his legs and arms, wondering if he was asleep when she noticed a tremble shuddering through his body, and she about jumped out of her chair. _No blanket! Of course! Oh God, was he cold? _She couldn't believe her inconsideration! She steeled herself to her seat, and forced her to take a step back.

Now she had the perfect chance. She had to admit that it was an idea that she had been dancing dangerously with ever since she had her first few interviews. And besides, she reminded herself, wasn't she breaking _all_ the rules now? She was planning to try new things—she _would_ be the doctor that helped all of these trapped, tormented souls! She swallowed hard, and braced herself for whatever was to come, ashamed that a new panic button was hidden in her blouse.

She slowly, carefully, held out her newly worked out arm, muscles still a bit sore and achy from the pull ups she had been preforming, and decided to just jump, go with a random, unplanned wing, and do it. _Human contact is what they need! Understanding, and compassion!  
><em>

She continued to slowly reach out; mistaking Joker's futile attempt to keep the feeling in his fingers for a gesture of wanting touch, and took his hand.

The warmth was instantiations and Joker lifted open his eyes to find that this girl—this hilarious, small, smither of a girl, was actually _touching_ him! _Him!_ The _Joker!_ Holding his _hand_ of all things! But as the seconds ticked by with them staring at each other, just contemplating, just daring…Joker found that the numbness was resending away. Not just from his hand, but his arm, his chest…even his legs! Sure, it wasn't all gone, but this?…This was something very, very new. He almost nearly liked it.

Almost.

Harleen looked embarrassed for a second, and after what felt to be a highly counted out minute by the both of them, she sought to let go—only to be held weakly back with the Joker's own hand. He continued to stare wildly at her hand like it was some foreign weapon that he could use, tracing his long thumb up and over her heavily bitten nails, making Harleen feel all the more self-conscious.

"Is this…not…nice?" She asked softly, ready for rejection. _God, what are you doing, Harley?_

"…Possibly the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me in many, many years," was all Joker responded with, a hint of somber sadness to his voice after another full minute of consideration. His feverish mind was blank with exhaustion and interest. His senses on a wire.

He pressed his thumb and watched as Harleen's hand lit up a soft shade of pale where the pressure was, so much like his own skin. His emerald eyes seemed to take on a unique shade of green. He couldn't move far because of his handcuffs, but he continued to stare at her hand until he just couldn't keep his eyes open any longer, his head spinning with nausea and ideas. So many ideas.

Harleen was content in their bubble of silence before she finally sought to ask what she had so foolishly be avoiding all along. "Is there anything I can get for you?"

The compassion in her voice was nearly palpable. Joker wanted to reach out and twist it from the air, and wrap it around the blonde's throat. If only he had the strength. He feigned thought for a moment, as if he hadn't wanted to knock her out of her chair for not doing something about it right when she walked into the room.

"Well, if it's not too terribly much to ask, Doctor Quinzel." Joker's rough voice seemed to catch onto its usually silky purr. "I'd love a blanket."

That same sticky sweetness from before hit the roof of Harleen's mouth like a gladly swallowed poison, churning her stomach. This was potentially very bad. But she couldn't help it now. She had taken the chance, and found something so much more. A possible connection. But not just for Joker, maybe now, for all her patients. This was a starting point for her. She got up and quickly retrieved the warmest blanket she could find, carefully held it out and away from her as she laid it across him. Almost immediately she recognized a change in her ailing patient, something more prominent about his smile, something perhaps gentler… She watched him settle into an easier sleep, and she continued to gasp his hand long after he had stopped holding on, secretly denying the fact that she was becoming more and more reluctant to let go as their session ticked down. After all, here he was…someone that was just looking for warmth.

She couldn't deny her sweet spot for him.

Inside of himself, beneath the medicine, the sleep, the confusion, and the warmth, the crown prince of crime couldn't stop laughing.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> Hi gang! Um, um, internet's backkk, hooray. I know it's been…uh, forever. Thank you for sticking with me. Someone new is in for an interview soon. I mean soon! Please let me know what you think? I'm so sorry again, so so sorry. 8D_ Reviews are love! 3 I tried my best to REALLY give you guys something awesome to come back too. Forgive meeeee ;-;  
><em>


	18. Wednesday: Patient M

**AN: UPDATES ARE POUURRRING DOWN ON THIS FIC NOWWW….**All I have to say is that out of all the villains of Arkham, Calendar Man freaks me out in probably the subtlest of ways. He just…is…so…unsettling! I MEAN HAVE YOU GUYS *LOOKED* AT HIM? DAYMN ROCKSTEADY, U CRAZY. He's just so freakin' creepy-looking. I really don't care for him.

Or maybe it's because he looks like my mom's current boyfriend.

* * *

><p><strong>Wednesday:<strong>

_October the third, 11:23 am_  
><em>Extreme Isolation Ward<em>  
><em>Cell Block H,<em>  
><em>Patient M AKA: Calendar Man<em>

Harleen wasn't allowed in his cell.

Period.

No guards, no call button.

Nothing.

It was the very first time she had honestly _not_ been allowed excess to a patient. Sure, she couldn't bring one to the Commerce Room. Alright, so their hands were bound to tightly that their circulation was cut off that they sat gnawing at their chains like slowly maddening animals. Sometimes they'd come in so twistedly wrapped in a straight jacket, without even the means to sit up; FINE, she'd just have to bring out the recorder once again—but THIS? She was their doctor! How could she not even be in the same room with them? She brought it up to Sharp, complained to the uncaring medical staff, and even tried to pay off the guards—but ever since her_ Dent scare_, they wanted nothing to do wither her. Harleen soon found herself quickly running out of illegitimate options. Furious as she was, she would just have to deal with the basics of what she could grasp. Her heels clicked scornfully down the Isolation hall ways, her thoughts dark with ideas of how to slip inside. She looked carefully down the right of her to be bombarded with glass.

Actual _glass._

She stopped, her eyes squinting. She rarely saw an entire _wall_ of glass in Arkham Asylum, let alone _clear _glass. She continued to follow the transparency until the wall jutted out into a round corner that led her straight to a little enclave of a room. The three walls surrounding her glinted with recently applied Windex and heat-sensitive panels. A metal chair was already stationed for her, and when she sat down, she couldn't resist giving a quizzical look around her.

"Oh, don't be alarmed, doctor," A soft, easy voice called to Harleen. "I assure you, it's all quite safe."

Startled, Harleen let out a faint yelp, and scanned the inner sanctum to find her next patient.

A somewhat obese man gazed up at her from his bench on the far-back wall, while, all around him, the clippings of numerable calendars crumbled. The torn, scribbled upon pieces of paper had been glued, stamped, twisted and manipulated into balls at his sides. It was evident that he had tried to mount them to the walls, but the glass gave no lead-way, and the papers endlessly tumbled towards the titles at his feet. He wore a strange metal contraption around his right leg that made it appear a little longer than his left. The jutting of his dim, orange jump suit behind the glass seemed to melt and mold his appearance into something of an apparition, and that made Harleen have to constantly adjust her view of him, as if he never came out quite clear.

"Hello, I'm right here," the tattooed man nodded slowly after gaining her attention, his legs still fixed to the floor. "I'm not surprised they brought you in here now. As I'm sure you don't know: today is Germany's Unity Day—a day of celebration just after the country had ripped its own insides apart after World War 2. Just imagine all those happy faces as they pull the patches back over each other, hiding the scars, the wounds, the manipulation of the German people against Hitler….covering up all those…tattoos."

Harleen swallowed, still jarred by her complete lax of physical proximity. The bald man gazed at her causally, as if he had just invited her to share in a late brunch or discuss a novel, his hand cupping outward in a show of harmless, calm conversion. Harleen noted the camera just behind her as pulled her chair as close as she could to the glass until her knees touched the smooth, bulletproof surface. Her hands fixed her pen and pad across her lap while she studied the pervious notes on her next patient carefully.

'_Patient is diagnosed with schizophrenic borderline personality disorder. His crimes and murders revolve around the holidays of the year, and the system of time. His victims however are usually women. His methods are stalking or immobilizing over a distinct period of planning until the length falls into a holiday. The possibility of sexual asexual has not been proven, but is considered to be held accountable. Extremely dangerous around holidays—anti-social and highly vicious.'_

"Hello Julian Day," Harleen began with a cool, collected smile. "My name is Doctor Quinzel, and I'm going to be your new psychologist. Before we begin, are there any questions you would like to ask me?"

"Ah, how kind of you. Yes, I do have an inquiry," Julian bobbed his head again, folding and unfurling his large, clammy hands as if he wanted to reach out. The sweaty, yellowing folds from around his chin were rubbing raw against his suit; a metal, blinking, choking device clamped tightly about his throat. Harleen furrowed her brows, refusing to acknowledge the twinge of anxiety settling into her stomach. _This man calls himself 'Calendar Man' and has the months of the year imprinted into his forehead Harleen—really. Get a grip! How bad can this one be?_

She quickly scratched against her pad angrily—_how bad can _he_ be, _he _be. Not one._

_A_ he.

"When is your birthday, Doctor?"

"I'm sorry Julian, but I'm afraid I can't give out that kind of information."

"Very well," Patient M sighed, ducking his head and swooping his large hands over his head as if he still had the habit for messing with his hair. Without raising his head, he asked: "Well, what about tattoos?"

"Tattoos, Julian?"

"Do you have any?"

Harleen's eyes traced over her patient's face grimly, wondering what kind of _sick, morbid, dogmatic obsession_ could bring someone to mar their own _forehead_ like _that ._It just looked…wrong. So ridiculously_ wrong_. But she centered herself, and answered kindly.

"I'm not against them by any means; I just haven't found what I'm looking for in them yet."

The patient's somber expression widened, his eyes restlessly excited by this. "So you want one?"

Harleen tried not to ogle as his forehead contorted with the thick, black ink of _FebMarAprMay _forced itself into some kind of twisted, fleshy word jumble.

Harleen began impedingly with her own:

"Would you care to explain your tattoos?"

The man stood, not to pace his cell but to walk steadily towards Harleen, his right foot dragging with a limping gait from the brace around his rather useless leg.

"Isn't it ingenious? It's so tedious to keep a calendar—time is always fleeting, and can never _really _be captured on paper. So I imprinted it into my skull, literally and metaphorically as so I'd never be wrong to what month would come next. Every day I wake up, face myself in the mirror, and look forward to a bright sunny July, or cool, rainy April, depending on the day of course."

"I see," Harleen bent down as to give herself a reason not to look at him. The way he moved his body in such a curled, loping stance already made her heart start pumping for fight or flight. Her thoughts flooded back to the Commerce room and her discovery over a stack of old VCR Disney tapes. She noted that spit, blood and dust that had collected over every case—epically The Hunch Back of Notre Dame…she shuddered at her recollection of the Quasimodo before her. In the novel, the deaf, nearly mute Hunch Back was a murderer and rapist as well. Well, so much for enjoying reading ever again, Harleen sighed. It was a subtle effect, but she soon found that many of her pleasures from her time off was being taken over; tainted with the after effect of the corruption that was thrown on to her day in and out. She found herself acquiring out of the way spices, pillows, toothpaste, even soaps just so she'd never have to share the same kind that was brought in to the inmates. She felt shameful as a doctor that refused to share the same items of her patients, but it still a level that she wasn't willing to jump to yet.

Her pen retraced over his analysis, and she circled the word 'women'.

"When you were a child, did you always have such an obsession with women?" Harleen's heart gave a jittery jolt in her chest when the dark, careful look in the inmate's eyes returned to settle on her.

A slow, cool smile dripped across the man's puffy, dirty face. "Now that is quite a tale! And with every great tale, it falls on the perfect occasion. The first holiday I remember is Valentine's day. I remember it fondly—kids were always allowed at school. It always seemed like every other holiday we weren't allowed to go in, or children just wouldn't show. But I was always there. 365 days of the year."

"Always?" Harleen's jaw tightened in surprise. "Including the weekends and after-hours?"

"My parents were not people to count on," The tattooed inmate allowed, stopping his dragging straight from left to right. Harleen noticed how he was ever so slowly getting closer and closer to her. Dare she back up now and possibly offend her patient?

"Don't_ not _look at me pitifully, doctor," Harleen gasped at his comment, and averted her blues back to his grotesque facial structure. "It wasn't all bad. Even when it snowed it Gotham, and I had to wait for hours and hours outside…watching the snow catch on the dead trees…or in summer, when Gotham would perform it's death rattle of a single vital sign, and the trees would burst into blooms of festering orange and infected yellow." Calendar man gave a careless rise of his round shoulders, the thick, powerful muscles of his arms tightening in the sleeves of his jumpsuit.

"Needless to say, time became my friend. The months the gateway to my many seasons of schooling, and her."

"Her?" Harleen's pen stopped.

The large patient froze where he stood, awkwardly bending at the knee to keep the pressure from one leg. He turned his head intently to look at the curious doctor, and brought up his large hands to iterate. "I just can't help it. I keep thinking to myself, 'I'll find her. One day. One, holiday at a time. It's fate, you see.'"

"Fate, Julian?"

"Do you really believe the world is going on end this year, doctor? Because…if the calendar has stopped, it means I'm running out of time. And well, that's just dreadful….for her."

"Considering your knowledge of all dates and time of the calendars, I'm surprised to hear you're even considering the idea that just because the Maya calendar stopped so will the world."

The bald man threw back his head and gave a startling laugh that actually made Harleen jump in her seat. Her knees knocked again the glass, and her heart gave another nervous skip at the hollow, soft sound the glass made. The patient took noticed, and gradually began to walk directly towards her now, without stopping. Harleen couldn't help but dig her heels into the tile beneath her, and shift her weight backwards, slipping the chair with a long, drawn out sound of retreat.

Her patient reached out his large, pale hands and pressed them to the glass, leaning his head forward into a mute, platonic, neutral expression.

"My heart was broken that first Valentine's day. And so I told myself that I'd_ make_her love me. I spent an entire year, using every holiday to get close, to have a reason to call her, or touch her." He slowly slid his meaty fingers down the pane, creating a sharp, high, scratching sound like nails against a chalkboard. Harleen shuddered into her seat. "But one long, dark, rainy August day…she moved away. To Metropolis."

Harleen's small expression gave way to curator. "What about your parents? Did they ever celebrate holidays?"

"It is like I said before, Doctor. My parents were never really around. I was an only child." A distant, watery look stared out from his black eyes. "There is no holiday dedicated to the lonely," He sighed.

"Have you felt lonely your whole life?" Harleen quietly asked. A breif silence filled the air, their eyes locking as the distance between her patient, the glass, the stretch of tile, and her chair become awkward and over-pronounced. His calm expression shattered into a bitter, resentful sneer as he brought back one fist and pounded it onto the glass—causing the whole room around Harleen to wave and jiggle precariously outwards.

"Only around the holidays." He lamented coldly, tilting his head slowly, dropping his hands at his sides like dead weight. He was standing face to face with his doctor, and Harleen continue to stare back into his black eyes, unable to move.

"I look forward to our next chat, doctor Quinzel. On the 5th. I won't forget. And I certainly hope you won't either," the bald, orange image before Harleen moved farther and farther out of focus that soon he was nothing but a bright spot on the bare walls around him. His easy voice laid the idea of a threat into the air that Harleen nearly missed its purpose.

She quickly addressed pervious notes from sessions with other doctors.

-Whoever is next, do not listen to Day. It is NOT one woman, I repeat—it is NOT one woman! He's delusional in his way of spotting any female to be this '_her'_. Do not try to get details about her, or anything more. Just keep him self-centered. _She_ is not real._ She_ is not a woman. _She_ is the potential to harm _all _women.

Harleen's brows furrowed, as she glanced up at Julian once more, noting how he just leaned against the glass now, the yellowing whites of his eyes staring straight down at her, never blinking. Harleen traced his view to, at first, her note pad, and then quickly realized that a button on her blouse was open, revealing a bit more of her cleavage than she'd like—and blocked his view of it with her hand, fixing her dressing mishap. She shifted, flipping page after page that dated his latest crimes in 2011 from different passed around doctors.

_Valentine's Day: _Screamed out his love over her protest. Stalked and smothered her. Intimae. Lacy thing, truffles, and a dozen red roses.

_April Fools:_ Stalked her for six days, and she said her life lacked…surprises. Stalked her to four more, then cut her breaks. Regret? Didn't get to tell her "surprise!"  
><em><br>New Year's Eve: _Walked into a New Year's Eve ballroom party with a flame thrower.

_Christmas: _Old Judge Harkness. Hung him with Christmas lights to escape the gallows. Comical. Bad puns.

_Saint Patrick's Day: _poisoned his henchmen with green mamba venom.

_Mother's Day: _He killed her. Describes it poetically.

_Father's Day: _His father wrote him off as a wacko, a loser. So he stopped by and took him fishing. He chopped him up and used his body parts as fish bait. Whenever he eats a fish, he feels closer to his dad.

_Independence Day: _Fire in the intensive care ward, but Batman stopped Calendar Man from escaping. Calendar man ripped out the July month from a calendar and sent it to police headquarters, but Batman figured it out and stopped him from blowing up everything.

_Feast Day of Saint Roch:_Crane provided a hydrophobic formula, but Calendar Man released the hounds, rapid dogs that ran through the streets. Couldn't think of a better way to celebrate the "dog days of summer".

_Labor Day:_He posed as a construction worker and drove the bull-dozer through the Gold Exchange. Next one released bulls and wild boars into Gotham in reference to the labors of Hercules. Last year laid siege to the maturity ward of a hospital. A Newspaper clipping of Batman fleeing from the window, saving the women trapped within.

_Halloween: _Arkham at Halloween is redundant. Joker led a break out on All Hallow's Eve.

_Thanksgiving: _He took over a family's dinner, and killed them all.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> Guess who's back, baby? More of creepies **to come in two days times**. **I hear** **Jason Todd has been asking for our dear doctor. **Thank you to everyone who's been hanging on and not sending me death threats. Seriously, the reviews I still receive are so dear to me, and I completely do not deserve them. And for that, I am so sorry.

**P.S.:** Is that previous note right? Who are these mad villains talking about, anyhow? Nothing is so simple as not just being 'real'. Who is this _her,_I wonder?


	19. Wednesday: Patient J(s)

[ The door to her office had been left unlocked that night. It slid open and soundless fingers and shadowless footsteps sunk into the carpet that followed through into the room. The intruder stayed still for a moment, eyes flickering carefully around. Inspiringly, her office was neat. The books piled in a small row along a shelf just above a computer. Papers were sorted into stacks; some stamped, and some with little, bendy sticky notes. The desk chair that had been pushed inwards now found itself being rolled out, and sat in. The press of a key resulted in a complete lack of response from the computer screen. It was off for the night. The rustling of papers, and soon the hands found what they were looking for. A thick, organized file that included all of Harleen's patients.

All that is, the eyes spied, but one.

The figure thought to itself for a moment, a small smile revealing short, square teeth_. Why would the doctor have a special place for any of her patients? _The fingers fumbled around for a moment, holding up papers and seeing straight through the thin, damp material. They came across a particularly long set of notes, all sloshed together by a single quivering staple in Doctor Harleen's sloping, spidery style. Across the top, the giant furious scribble's of a familiar hand dominated, the words nearly running together with the emotion they tried to illustrate:

**"MISS QUINZEL, THIS IS COMPLETELY UNACCEPTABLE FOR A PROPER INTERVIEW. I AWANT FACTUAL RESPONSE, NOT A SILLY, ROMANTICIZED PLAY DATE OF WHAT EVER GARBAGE MY INMATES ARE THINKING. I WANT A BRIEF REWRITE OF ONLY WHAT IS COMPLETE NECESSARY."**

The note was ostentatiously that of Quincy Sharp.

Then, in a small neater front, a few words were typed:

"Sympathy will get these patients nowhere, Quinzel. I know it's hard. But…that is the truth of things."

The face lingering above the papers simply chuckled, and ran a thumb over the first penned words, smearing the ink so that the name was basically illegible:

_Jason Todd. ]_

* * *

><p>Template: Wednesday<p>

October the third, 2:09 pm

Outdoors, Exercise Arena

Located just outside gates: Courtyard C.

Patient J AKA: Jason Todd

First thoughts: Out of all the men I've seen here, I never expected to see a boy.

No. I shouldn't call him a boy. He's obviously much older than that. Perhaps at the end of his teenage years. Maybe even in his 20's. But…he is so young. They have us sitting on two wooden chairs just off of the main exercise area, in an outside shantly roofed patio.

Settings: It was pouring outside; the rain was relentless and flooding under the door cracks and through the silver, dripping holes of the twisted iron fences. The already packed dirt, too full and gritty to hold in any more punishment, slid under my tall heels in waves of thick, sluggish mud, as I made my away to the court yard of Arkham. I had laid my hair on my neck before I left the center of the Asylum, but now it matted and was itchy over my neck, strains lining the hollowness of my cheek bones. I checked myself in a shattered mirror hanging in the women's restroom.

Personal status: When did I stop eating? Or stop…anything? I sighed, fixing my hair up into pig-tails. It wasn't my style, but it was better than clawing at the back of my neck all interview. I really need to get out more.

Begin:

"I'm 6 foot zero, my shoe size is 11, and I have no earthly idea how old I am." Jason told me the second I sat down. He was dripping wet, his chest heaving, and he had a fake scowl sketched upon his lips; it was like that of a stubborn young boy regrettably hulled in from a baseball game, with only the faintest of satisfaction that at least he was out of the rain.

Startled, my lips twitched involuntarily, perhaps into a smile, perhaps into a frown. For once I didn't lift up my pen. I crossed one leg up and over the other to leaned back.

He seemed unnerved by this. "Didn't you hear me? I said that I'm slightly taller than the average American male, and I have big feet."

I didn't respond. He leaned forward, interested. "Really? This means nothing to you?"

"This is the first time I've met a person, let alone a patient here, that's so…keen on his bodily statistics. I guess I'm a little shocked at how impersonal you sound."

"Impersonal? I'm just giving you what you want to hear. You're the doctor, right?"

"Oh," I wanted to laugh. "No, you misheard wrong. It's true, I'm a doctor, but I'm not _that _kind of doctor. You understand?"

He considered this for less than an instant before he seemed to redden a little. His hands bawled together tightly in his lap. He was only chained around his waist. "Oh," He huffed.

"But, it's certainly good to know that you're so on top of your body. Often patients are a little loss on exact numbers."

He turned the side of his head so that I could get a slight look at the faint, silver pucker of a scar on his cheek. "Yeah, well. Gotta know crap like that."

"Any particular reason why?"

He snapped his neck so sharply to stare back at me that I heard it crack. His dark eyes stared at me head on.

"No." He said flatly.

I took the awkward silence between us to record the emotion that seemed to be rolling off of him in waves. He was antsy, but not in the way I expected of an inmate—his mannerisms suggested that every movement he made had purpose. I glanced up under my eyelashes to study him: there was no picture on his document. And, actually, there wasn't much on him at all. It's like his aging record stopped at his birth…He had untidy hair that stuck to the sides of his face, sticking to the back of his ears, but in the right light, it had little glimmers of red. His eyes were set into a dark blue colour.

"So, that must mean that _you're _the doctor that these dirt bags have been whimpering about, huh?" His blue eyes reflected my image back at me, but so much sharper and smaller. He drew back his head and made a growling sound in his throat, then turned quickly before he spat squarely onto the dirt beneath us.

"Er—" I sputtered at his sentence, his diction throwing me for a loop. "I don't mean to cause alarm."

"Oh, believe you me, you don't. And frankly, I'd much rather get back to my exercise time." He quickly tried to stand up, the chains straining against his hips, and I stood as well, caught off-guard at what to do.

"Yo, Jefferson, you wanna let me out? I'd really appreciate it." Jason called to a guard, Head of Outdoor watch, a Patrick Jefferson, with shoulders so wide I'm pretty sure I could handspring off of them. Jefferson approached us quickly.

"Ma'am," He nodded at me. "Is your interview over?"

"I honestly don't think it's even begun. But, if Jason wants to leave, he can."

Jefferson quickly placed a wide hand over my patient's narrow shoulder, and I noticed that the space between the indents of his collar bone were so deep that the rain water created little pools in them. I nearly felt endeared by the young man's still growing body.

The guard marched him to the door before Jason put in a gloved hand, fingers torn through the fabric from years of abuse. "E'yeah, I didn't say you couldn't come with me. Hope you don't mind bad weather."

It took a few moments for the guard to re-utilize Jason into the court yard. It was a fairly large area, although it was mostly covered in vast amounts of water pudding at its center. There were basketball hooped ripped at the net, soccer nets, all kinds of deflated sporting balls, and, finally, a hanging punching bag with stuffing pooling out of it at the impact of every swing. A barbed wire fence wrapped around the entire stretch, and I found myself nearly having to run to keep up with Jason as he decided his form of play. When he came close to the punching bag, I held out by the fence, keeping my eyes trained to him, and not the gaping hole in the fence that allowed the punching bag's cloth to be swung back and forth between an outsider and an inmate.

I suppose the guards and the patients…play together?

"This rain," I called over the hush of the thunder, "It's miserable, huh?"

The young patient didn't stop—the slop and rebound of his hard fist against the falling-apart fabric of the stuffed punching bag kept time with the gurgle of the gutters railing the anciently tiled roof. I huffed, glancing at my water-logged clip board.

"Jason—may I call you that?"

The young man didn't respond with more than an impatient grunt, the flare of his nostrils sending a mist of water through the air.

"Jason," My heart jumped at the intensity of his gaze on my face. But as I stared, I noticed that he looked particularly at my lips.

"Jason," I began again, very aware of my tongue against my teeth. The fence vibrated, swatting at my damp coat, churning the rough air between us against the stormy wind.

"What? You said my name twice. Yeah. I'm here. What?" He beat the bag without stopping, but every word came out snappy, like a verbal spar.

"Do you have trouble hearing?"

"I ain't deaf, Doc," He said irritably, clicking his consonants at me.

I smirked into the next wave of rain that splattered against my hair, whipping the bleak rain drops over my eyelashes.

"Think that's funny, Miss?" Jason asked me, blue eyes never leaving my face.

"A little, honestly," He snorted at my response; a shimmer of droplets fell from his nose, rolling down his throat.

"Yeah, well, you're a first." He finally decided to say.

"I am?" I huddled down against the fence, watching the dim blinking of the highest tower in Arkham rising in the distance. I wondered if at this very moment, a thin, practically invisible dot was being aimed at my patient's neck. I wondered what it would take to get the guard to fire. I found myself distracted by the blink, a constant eye of oppression, even at 'relaxed exercise' sessions. I clenched at the clipboard in my hands. I wondered what it'd be like to hold that gun myself, I thought.

"I can tell you're ernst. That's, uh, different." I watched carefully as he quickly grabbed at the bag, stopping it midswing. He leaned it back against its chain rope, and he reached his fingers to grip at one of the small holes in the fence.

"Warden Sharp is doing all he can to innovate—"

"Cut the bullshit. It's all you." He let go of the fence abruptly, trailing away from me. Curious, I stretched my legs, picking up my footing to his arrogant pace.

"Okay—so Jason," I struggled to maintain a proper questing tone. "Do you often come out here alone?"

"I'm the only one that makes it a priority to get outside of my cell at all times. Even in this caged way."

I stopped. "Why is that?"

"I don't like it when I can't see the sky."

"And no one comes with you?"

"Those monsters know better than to get near me."

I blanched, blinking water from my eyelashes. There was again. That interesting diction against all the inmates. Not just Joker like I heard from so many… but everyone. "Monsters, Jason?"

"Oh, sorry," a glint of lightening bolt highlighted the scarlet in my patient's hair, "I mean your _patients."_

I nibbled at my bottom lip, unsure of how to put my next question."Jason…do they scare you?"

"_Nothing _scares me," Jason spat wetly onto the soggy ground, though that made him stop in his tracks.

"I…see," I added gently. I padded to the fence, testing his edginess by getting closer than was maybe necessary—but I had to try. I held a mad man's hand once before, hadn't I? I promised to be unethical, didn't I?

"Jason. You mentioned before, about the sky. But we can't see it now, because of the clouds. But yet you don't mind?"

"I don't mind getting wet. It feels," He seemed to struggle for the word for a moment. "Clean, you know?"

I nodded, recording his responses in my mind, not bothering to fight for a dry paper in the down pour.

"But, um, of course the sky's still there, Doc. Just because you can't see it, doesn't mean it ain't there."

"You're most definitely right—which is why—"Suddenly, Jason cut me off.

"Joker is weak, isn't he? I heard that someone tried to kill him," Jason's question made my heart drop. The darkness in his eyes seemed to expand into his words.

I stalled, biting my bottom lip again, flicking a drip of water from my fingertips. "He is….under intensive care currently, yes."

Jason seemed to consider this for a moment, a hard, angry look overtaking his face, before he marched back towards the punching bag. I quickly followed, wondering if I had upset him.

"And you've seen him?" The young man's voice seemed to take on a rougher, bitter edge.

"I'm his psychiatrist, Jason," I explained in a gentle tone, "I have too."

"You should smother him," He deadpanned. He then struck the bag so hard that it dropped from its chain, splattering the rain around our feet as it hit the mud.

_"What?" _My question came out a little too sharp.

"Do I have to say it twice? Take a pillow and cover his entire face with it," The sturdy body of the older teen dipped down to pull up another punching bag with just one arm, and the racing rivets of water that sped down his skin showed off the compact, intense curl of his muscles. "Even then, it's a softer death than he deserves."

"He deserves to _die_, Jason?" I found myself suddenly overtaken by the turn in conversation.

"All of those people in there do, Doctor Harleen. They're animals. No, they're worse—they aren't _human._They don't have souls. They don't understand suffering and pain. They don't understand death."

I was stunned, warped into silence. How could he talk that way about—my patients? Alarmed, I decided to press farther.

"And if you could choose a death for the Joker, Jason? What would it be?"

Jason's punches seemed to match the rhyme of his words. "I'd make it nice and slow. Intimate like. I'd find someone he loves, and I'd beat them to death right in front of him…" Jason's smile slowly slid into a grim, strained look, like he was concentrating on nothing but the images of his plain in his head…"And when he starts to laugh…when he thinks it's all a _joke_, and doesn't care…"

I found my heart plummeting faster and faster—racing to some dark, desperate, scared part in side of me. My insides twisted, my hands shook. But _why?_ Why was I so nervous? It wasn't like Jason was threatening _me._

I shook my head to interrupt his…his…irrational ideas of killing my patient—the images of Joker's attack coming back much too soon. All the pain, all the damage…and that horrible, horrible man who had let it all happen.

_Batman._

"Jason," I found myself standing just into the space where the fence divided to make room for the bag. "I don't understand. Did something happen between you and the Joker? Please explain it to me."

I reached out, missing at first, but I managed to grab a hold of the chain, pulling the bag to a shaking stop. Jason's pounding continued, and it shook my entire arm and into my spine from the force.

"I _can't_ explain it to you, Doc. If you knew _anything _about pain, Doctor Quinzel, anything at all—"He stopped, leaving a tingling sensation in my arm. "You'd want them all dead too."

The rough rip of a thick chain curling along the ground grinded into my ears, and through the mist of the wind the only thing I could make out was the bowed, dripping wet form of the young prisoner. He had ripped the punching bag away from me. He…

He had rejected me.

I couldn't breathe. No patient had _rejected_ me before…no patient but...when I first met...the _Joker_...

Suddenly, Jason stopped, his pale lips into a snarl, water running through his teeth. He didn't just stare at me. He was _glaring_, full on spite and rage, running at me like a bull, smashing into the fence between us that suddenly seemed so frail and flimsy. I leapt back, stunned, confused, terrified.

"Lose those pony-tails. They look childish," He gritted his teeth and turned his neck sharply, spitting onto the ground once more, his fists curled into the barbed wire of the fence. "Grow the hell up."

The thunder crackled and a guard voice hollered roughly that my patient had to remove himself within 30 feet of me for his violence. Jason's blue eyes glanced at me so quickly that I think I imagined the sadness in his eyes, before his eyebrows changed his look into rage, and he left.

I stood in the rain staring after him for a long time.

* * *

><p>[The hands soon found a note, writing in curly pink ink, hiding in a drawer. <em>After my—<em>It began:]

…session with Todd left me uneasy, I returned to check on Joker when a particular event took place.

He gave me a compliment.

He had been sleeping for practically the entire day, and so I sat down next to the bed. I was recording my notes from my session with Jason to find that Joker was suddenly awake—so quick and silent about it that I jumped when I finally noticed.

"Joker," I was out of my chair instantly, reaching for his hand. I couldn't help myself now. I was breathless with this idea of physical connection. No other doctor tried it. No other doctor even _dared_, and so far, he didn't reject me. Not like Jason. Not like anyone.

He stirred roughly, the thin muscles of his chest stretching out, curling down his sides, popping the stitch linings and bruising into intricate vein printed patterns of purple and green. It made his white skin glow all the more eerie.

"Good mornin' Doc Harls," He purred into a smile, his eyes off center to my face. I felt my fingers instantly moving towards my hair for some reason, like I wanted to fix whatever flaw he was staring at. I took his hand gently, and he carefully squeezed it back, like he was waking into my grip.

"Joker, we talked about this, it's Doctor Harl_een._"

His lips opened wider, his eyes interested. He gave a wheezy laugh from the bed. "Right, riiight, of course. My deepest apologizes, Doc."

I adjusted his breathing tube, not liking the bite in his lungs I was hearing. As I worked, I noticed Joker continuing to stare at me—his neck moved in response to my own, and I found myself desperate to finish my task and stop my cheeks from lighting up. What the hell was wrong with me? I've seen mad men stare at me for longer than this patient had and normally I only paled.

Abruptly I dropped the tube and stepped back, my hands on my hips, my eyes tight with worry.

"What?" I demanded snippily.

Joker simply blinked at me thoughtfully, a small smile curling into his battered cheek bones. "I was just admiring your hair. It looks good, all springy and up in and all that. You should keep it that way more often."

"It's just to keep the hair out of my face," I found myself defending my rushed, lazy hair style from this morning more quickly than I would have liked. Jeez, wearing pig-tails sure got you a lot of attention.

"It's charming," He said pleasantly, and for a second I had to fight my own smile as he wiped away my sour mood. He then started to hum something jovially, and I excused myself from the room, wanting to listen, but I had to stop the sudden jolty pound of my stupid heart, all while Jason's monologue ran through my head.

_I'd find someone he loves…and when he starts to laugh….when he thinks it's all a joke, and doesn't care…_

I trembled outside of Joker's door, waiting to inform Doctor Elliot about Joker's breathing.

I took a deep breath to keep control.

_This doesn't mean anything to you, Harleen. This doesn't mean anything_, I snapped at myself.

* * *

><p>[The hands twirled around the little piece of notepaper, bringing it close to the eye.<p>

_Apparently_, the intruder thought, _it does_.]

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> Thank you for the lovely reviews so far- truly, they just...means everything to me. Please enjoy the pick up of *gasp* a story line! And notice Harleen's own diction...she's getting a little rebellious there ..thinking about holding guns...saying Joker's name...mm, gurl, what is going on? And poor, poor Jason. I have nothing but that grief for that boy, I truly do. Also: it's a little ironic. I mean, it's not like Harleen hasn't seen just exactly what went down between ol' Mistah J and Jason. She was holding the pictures in a certain chapter if I recall...and...who's this intruder getting their muddy paws all over Harleen's hard work? As the Mad Hatter would say:_ curiouser and curiouser!_ Any suggestion for who's next?


	20. Wednesday: Ivy's Surprise

**AN: **Hey guys. Long time no...time? Ah-ah. *Stares nervously into the crowd. Brings up a trashcan lid to block thrown rotten tomatoes * Happy Holidays and a Merry Christmas to you all. I know that I've had my problems with this story, but I'm happy to say that I finally got it all down, and can begin working towards more interviews AND a story line. I know it sounds like a lame excuse (and is), but the reason I fight with updates for this story is: **One.** I want it to be_ PERFECT_ for you all. **Two.**I go back and forth on if you guys want JUST interviews, or JUST story line? Or BOTH? I literally go for circles in the back of my mind at work about this.

Anyhow, I think I got it all figured out. Prepare for a rapid updates for reals this time. With story line, and recurring characters and things! Yeah!

God, I'm terrible at this and don't deserve any of you lovely readers.

Special shout out to:**_ DreamOrNightmare, TitansGirl1234, MillyCloud, THE Brandon Brownson_**, and SO many others for keeping my derp bum from just dying over my mess I've dug myself into. Seriously. You. All. Rock.

For those of your lovely readers that really enjoyed my story, and would LOVE *BETTER* ones, (and ones that update regularly): I HIGHLY suggest **TitansGirl1234's story "Red Lips**". Haunting, brilliant, and an extremely realistic twist of the Batman villains out in Gotham city, and not just sitting around in Arkham in my story. Plus, good ol' Harley/Mistah J.

I also HIGHLY suggest **DreamOrNightmare'**s **"Truth Or Dare?"** Yet another Harley/Joker fic, but ohmygod, just, ohmygod. Joker's thoughts comparative to Harley's feelings and actions are just ah-mazing.

They're both just so ah-mazing fhsdjkfsdgd./

Merry Christmas (eve!), guys. c:

* * *

><p><strong>Patient I:<strong>

_Wednesday. Unrecorded, unmarked, unnoticed.  
>Cellblock D. Midnight. After close.<em>

"Well, well, well," Two dark emeralds faceted in wild orange hair burned across the room. A slender leg lifted and crossed itself, leaves twirling and wrapping along the muscles in the thigh, coiling up a calf. "This is…a surprise."

As they moved, Ivy's leaves chittered at Harleen expectantly with a soft rustle, like the hiss of snake from across the way, raising the hair on the blonde's lovely neck. "Your babies think otherwise."

"Them?" She raised a blazing eyebrow. "They're just attracted to how much carbon dioxide you produce, darling." Ivy crooned languidly. "Don't be so paranoid. You must be in a physical panic."

Harleen stepped smoothly into Ivy's cell, and to the redhead's surprise, didn't have her usual dress up props with her. She didn't have a clip board, or her lab coat, or even her heels. Harleen watched as Pamela Isley scrutinized her. She certainly didn't care. She was angry. She was pissed. She was _livid._

"Pamela, I need to talk to you." The blonde's voice was mysteriously intense.

The dark skittering of leaves seemed to snickered at Harleen's request, but Ivy remained seated where she was—watching the harsh splash of moonlight crawl across the walls of her square cell like a child first seeing their reflection in a mirror. Harleen sought harder for her attention, bearing up her teeth and her courage as best as she could, she matched forward. Ivy's green eyes swung like a slowly growing storm forced to break upon the land that was Harleen's body. The doctor had on normal clothes—navy wool sweater, pencil velvet skirt, and black silk stockings that had the toes missing from the feet, and the young physiatrist could practically feeling the titles radiate heat into the worn heels of her feet.

"Talk? Right, well, that requires a certain co-signing from a certain jack assed Warden, if I'm not mistaken." Ivy's tone ran icy through Harleen's veins as she neared.

"This is my own personal time that I am in here. Last night my office was broken into."

Ivy's ruby lips blossomed into a drippingly delighted smile. "And you think it was bad ol' Ivy, don't you? Well _of course _you do, Harley-dear."

Harleen's paced forward, her foot padding leaving soft thumping sounds across the titles that made the many growing _things_ in Ivy's cell nestling unsettlingly back and forth, like tiny turquoise snakes hypnotized by human flesh. For a heartbeat of a broken moment, Ivy nearly rose up in defense against such close proximity to another human before Harleen simply _tossed _herself onto the cot that Ivy sat on.

Now it was Ivy's turn to feel caught off-guard. She slowly turned her dark blood red curls to take in the fact that, yes, her demure doctor from so little ago was now laying on her bed, next to Pamela herself.

Ivy's sparklingly eyes raked over Harleen's, noting that the blue there was lined thickly with mascara as if she couldn't decide if she was dressing up to break into Arkham, or would walk in casually without suspicion. The blonde's soft tresses of yellow fanned across Ivy's mattress although it was shamelessly torn and dented with whatever choice office supply tool that was obviously not meant for holding it up. Harleen glared at Ivy's ceiling tiles of black and blue without a care for patient rules.

If she was going to start breaking down the walls to free these poor souls, she had to stop giving into Sharp. And further more: this was _personal_.

"No." Was all she asserted with a low subtle clack of her jaw locking._  
><em>  
>Ivy rolled her shoulders with a sigh; she crossed her bare legs, trying to decide if she'd play with this strange intrusion. She pulled her legs to her chest and turned herself purposely so that she and Harleen's toes touched. "No?" Ivy asked the blonde in a hushed whisper. <em>"No?"<em> She threw back her head in laughter at this—soft, sensuous, and radiant with just a touch of bitterness to every row—and suddenly all across Ivy's vine wrapped body the lines twisted and _bursted _into pale pink flowers that lined along her generous breasts and down her bikini line like the latest bio-natural bathing suit line from Paris.

"You must be as dumb as they say you are, Harley Quinzel, because no one in their pitifully money-brained mind would enter my domain and dare accuse me of something that I knowingly didn't do."

Slowly Harleen's baby blue eyes peered out from just over her limply clothed kneecaps.

"Exactly, Pam—Ivy. I've come in here so that you'd tell me who actually did it."

Ivy's green eyes turned to gemstone in one fury eaten look. "Why would I ever do such a thing?" She drawled spitefully.

Harleen ducked her gaze for just an instant before she pushed herself upwards so that the two women were on proper eye level. Ivy's skin seemed to darken sourly at the rise and fall of Harleen's shaky confluence.

"My office is like own prison cell." Harleen admitted willingly, finally forcing out the thoughts that had been so recklessly gnawing at the back of her mind for endless minutes of every day. "My papers, files—my work is like my seeds." Ivy's full lips twitched, annoyed at the comparison, but Harleen pressed on. "I barely go home. I lost a lot of my friends. My family doesn't call."

She swallowed hard, her cheerful voice taking on a sad muted rasp as she continued on:  
>But I've found I don't care. I've…I've found I <em>like <em>it."

She paused, her blue eyes trembling to keep with Ivy's puncturing listening rebuke, the aggravated spurs of her red hair tumbling across her shoulders like the hackles of nature—a panther, a lioness.

"Go on." Ivy stated fleetly, her voice nonplus.

Harleen sucked in a breath. "When I first got my job here I thought I understood what was going on. That there were good doctors trying to help people in various stages of metal decay—" Harleen's thin fingers dug into Ivy's cot, nails ripping at the meager rough stitching. "But I was _wrong._"

Ivy flowers opened and closed themselves, buds nuzzling her fingertips and along her breasts disparagingly.

"So—yes, I am paranoid now. Because my work is my life— like how your life is protecting the earth—or your babies—and it's just. I went back through the files that were picked through—and I've found something."

Harleen reached into the middle of her warm baggy folds of her sweater she produced a note from her bra. "I found this after my office was ransacked."

_'Break. Break. Break. Take. Take. Take. You. You. You. Soon. Soon. Soon.'_

Ivy's glittering eyes scanned it curiously before she turned away. "And you expect me to know what that piece of trash is? It's poor human dripple all over a precious, once-living tree."

Harleen shook her head disheartened. "I suppose I just thought you might let me know something. Anything, really. I've gotten every hand written sample from every patient in my file but nothing matches. Nothing at all. And now I'm worried. It's one thing for a patient to lash out. That I'm fine with." Harleen narrowed her blue eyes at the note. "But this is from an outside source. Someone's trying to defile my _work."_

Ivy sighed, already bored.

"I'm sorry Harley. The only amount of gossip I've heard is that there's going to be a possible jail break."

Harleen whipped around to look at Ivy, gawking. "When?"

"Like I know," Ivy scoffed offhandedly. She then dragged her glare to Harleen. "And like I'd tell you."

Harleen settled into an awkward silence, knowing that Ivy purposefully let such a big notion slip just to get her reaction, and to get her nowhere. She focused again, breathing hard.

"Fine. That's fine. But…my work. I just…I've been thinking." She studied her hands. "I've spoken to so many patients now. There's so much more than metal illness here." She looked up at Ivy. "There's depression, loneliness, alienation, a lack of compassion, a lack of choice, or freedom."

Ivy studied the doctor curiously. Harleen licked her lips nervously. "And I want it to change. I want to help. Everyone here. I _promise _you, Ivy, that I'm going to start doing some radial things. I mean—I'm sitting next to you right now, aren't I?"

Harleen dropped back onto the mattress. "And now I'm lying down next to you. Perfectly exposed."

"We're touching—so what?" Ivy riled angrily. "Doctors have handled me before and do you know what they did? Electroshock therapy. I had 2rd degree burns on my temples and I smelt of burning, smoldering forest for two weeks."

Slowly, Harleen looked at Ivy, and her blue eyes ached with sorrow. "I won't ever hurt you, Ivy. Before…I was… naive. I'm so sorry. I tried to tell the guards to be gentle with the removal. I..I wasn't informed until…much later. But that's why I'm here now. I don't want to rely on this miserable place anymore. That's why I need you—I just_ knew _it that from the moment we met that you were different as well. You're just so intelligent—you're cunning, and you're willing, and you're just this powerhouse of incredible power and purpose and I just thought…well…I'm just me…and…alone, that's not much. You know that." Harleen sank into the bed further. "I know that." She added softly.

Ivy stared at their touching toes in silence.

"I know it's strange," Harleen said slowly. "And unknown, and maybe even a little frightening—but I…I do. I want us to be friends. We could help each other. The more my work is tampered with, the less power I have here. To help you. All of you."

"Help?" Ivy's naked shoulders rose and fell with each peal of charming laughter that struck the walls like a stone tossed into a still lake. "False promises."

"Before you said you wanted to be friends—well I'm offering my friendship now. Help me help you." Harleen said slowly, her blue eyes glossy with desperation

"_Friends?_" Ivy spat the word into Harleen's face, lining the soft skin of Harleen's cheeks with spit that reminded her more of rainforest mist than any human flaw. "You must go through quite the entourage of patients Doctor, but surely you wouldn't forget our session—and how I told you I would help you with your little job here—" Her voice steeled and Harleen felt something smooth and thin crawl along her stockings, twist tightly around her ankle and _drag _the blonde under Ivy's frame—pinned straight down on to the mattress, suddenly clouded into the heavy red streams of Ivy's luscious hair washing over her upper body like a waterfall of freshly grown plant-life.

From around Ivy's waist a thicker strand of vine ripped out—covered in something sharp and heavy that coiled through the thick wool fibers of Harleen's sweater, prickling into the exposed skin along her sides and stomach—wrapping tightening and tingeing around her torso—inching up her throat, _squeezing._

"I just want to set you free," Harleen whimpered out. "No one will let me _try!"_

Ivy simply hung over her prey like a beautiful burning spider ready to strike. Harley struggled feebly with her binds, watching in terror as the gentle looking pink flowers from before started to manifest themselves with sticky blue barbs that steadily grew heavy with what Harleen could only assumed to be Ivy's famous poison.

"You're so _stupid_, you mindless little fool," Ivy purred drily. "What did you really think _you _accomplish here?"

"You..won't…hurt me…" Harleen edged out defiantly. Ivy merely licked her lips and lowered herself across Harleen, listening to the doctor's heart beat going wild within her chest.

_"Why?" _Ivy hissed—her red hair burning, twisting in the moonlight that lit the room with shadows of maroon red and deep, stomach churning shades of mossy thick green—like Harleen was dying in a swamp of blood, pain, and earth.

"'cause I'm different—has a doctor ever done anything like this before?" Harleen asked quietly into Ivy's ear, her vocal chords grating to keep her words understandable. Instantly Harleen stopped trying to break free. She just lied there, under a known killer, and breathed.

"Different—you're native and full of yourself like everyone else here!" Ivy berated into a scream. "Don't talk to me about _different_ when you had my plants _ripped_ away from me during our first visit. Don't preach to me about _understanding_ when you don't even try to know our_ pain!_ Don't—"

"Ivy—now I do understand!"Harleen gasped, and she painfully pulled her fingers to touch at Ivy's own hands—barely feeling the smooth green skin the enfolded the fury of mother nature herself. "Someone's…hurt…my babies…"

Ivy stopped. The burning, lashing knot around Harleen's windpipe was gone—and the blonde sputtered and wrenched as the dense world of Ivy's body seemed to untangle itself from her pinkly flustered flesh.

"Your babies." Ivy's cool gem clad eyes regarded Harleen's soft sky blue with an immeasurable amount of disdain. "You…_care_…about us?"

"Yes," Harleen's eyes lit up bright as the moon rising above them both. She quickly reached out and grasped Ivy's wrists, pulling the man-killer forward with a surprising amount of strength. Ivy remained wide-eyed and shocked, before she curled herself around the petite doctor's own frame, hugging someone other than her own beloved green children. "Yes—and that's all I want to do. I want to free you. I want to make you well! I want to help you—_all _of you!"

"All of us—but what about poor, despicable lil' loudmouthed Eddie?" Ivy's nostril flared and contempt.

Harleen's heart dropped in her chest, and Ivy relished in the sound of such _shame_.

Harleen broke the embrace, but kept Ivy's wrists tightly between her own hands. "I never wanted to hurt Edward Nigma. Ever. He just—just—"

"Scared you?" Ivy scowled pleasingly. "But I certainly scared you just now my dear, but yet I'm quite aware, as you know, of silly human ploys—why didn't I feel a shadow of doubt cross over you then?" Ivy's emerald green eyes widened devious realization, and she pouted her gorgeously luscious lips. "You've given up the Bat, then?"

Harleen stared hard into the moonlight that spilled across the floor, reminiscent of the spiraling, slinking shadows and harsh cruel tone of the Batman as it filled her with self-hate and remorse. "He tricked me." She said softly, her voice breaking over the words.

Ivy's eyes glowed as tears started to spill from the physicist's watery blue eyes. "Oh Harley—he lied to you too? Why that's just _villainous._"

"He—he—lied to you—as well?" Harleen squeaked between hiccuping-tears—unable to express how much she had been dying to tell someone how _sorry _she felt for hurting Edward. But who would understand before? Who would listen?

"He lied to all of us, Harley." Ivy murmured silky against her, her beautiful features darkening. "He tossed us all in here to suffer with the idea that we'll just disappear. He tells these doctors and the people of Gotham that we aren't worth anything. That we can't be—" her eyes widened as she plucked that hopelessly motivating word from Harleen's vocabulary—"_helped_. He's trying to crush your dream. Your…babies."

In spite of all of her composure, and nearly getting the poisonous kiss from Ivy, Harleen couldn't hold herself together any more while she heard the raw, bitter hatred in Ivy's tone. "_'nd 'now you all hate me, don't 'ou?! Because now 'm—'m just like that damn Bats!"_She cried nasally, bringing up her hands to hide her face.

"But I _hate him!_" Harley yelled at her hands as she continued. "I hate him like I _hate_ every stinkin' guard, and every hypocrite doctor and every single person in my life that's every told _me_ I wasn't _good enough!"_

"Harley—" Ivy gasped out, unsure how to handle such a reaction. Humans were so…wet.

"No! It's just not _fair!_ I just wanted to help but Batman made me fear all of you! But that just ain't right because it's you all I just want to save." Harley paused for a moment, and her voice became soft and bleak. "It's Batman that should be scared of _us."_

Ivy smiled, both amused and, frankly, overwhelmed at Harleen's blatant ranging show of emotion for her patients. It was hard to imagine the slender happy creature actually hating anyone. But still. The green skinned goddess leaned forward and slowly wrapped her arms around Harleen, put off by scent of tears, but intrigued and allured at the girl's grief. She had never seen a human make such a show before without Ivy being the one to threaten them firstly—but here, this pitiful little blonde was just sobbing—completely and fully going into human hysterics over hurting a murderer?

She rocked Harleen in her arms. "Shhh—shhh Harley. It's okay. It's not your fault entirely. Edward's an idiot anyhow. Believe me, any day now one of us would have stabbed him—you just got the lucky shot. It's not like his going away has left a black spot in any of our books."

Harleen sniffled into Ivy's hair, trying not to mess up its beautiful orange shine with snot and runny smudges of weak mascara. "It's s'not?"

Ivy used a delicate slender finger to move Harleen's torn hair from her eyes, and the blonde giggle slightly. "Thanks Pammie. I know my hair is a disaster these days."

Ivy's hair ruffled up at this, her perfect nose wrinkling in disgust. "Let's just stick to Ivy, okay Harley?"

"But we're friends now," Harleen insisted happily. "Well, I mean, secret friends. And I can't obviously detour you from calling me Harley instead of Harleen—so why not Pammie?"

"It's just so…common. And I am no common flower, my dear."

Harleen gave a weak shrug. "If you say so." She then downcasted her eyes at the floor, sweeping the room with a dreaded sense of longing for another cell.

"You wish to apologize to that fool still, don't you." Ivy deadpanned stiffly.

Harleen turned and looked at her, a smile tinged with cheerful regret saccharine on her face. "Don't tell me you can read me like a book already?"

Ivy rolled her green eyes and sneered at the question. "Please, Harley, I could read you before you set foot into this horrid excuse for a madhouse."

Harleen continued to smile sheepishly. "But not tonight?"

Ivy looked at the young doctor strangely as if she couldn't produce a harrowing enough answer. "You can be unpredictable."

"Whereas you're great at catching folks patterns." Harleen's eyes grew bright and wide again. "So, you'll tell me—maybe? Who's breaking into my office?" _And then maybe who's breaking out of Arkham? _Harleen filed away into her thoughts.

Ivy drew back, leaning fully against the plain wall. She teased a locked of flame around her fingertips as she thought, eyes tight and foreboding. "To be honest I've only just begun to take interest into your life now Harley, so, as of right now, I'm not sure." Her emerald eyes flashed to Harleen's in a greedy instant. "However, there is someone you could ask."

Harleen caught on fast, her heart sinking. "But…I know Eddie knows everything—even from hospital confinement—but…there's no way I could get to see him. Sharp—he's stamp a big red 'NO' to my noggin' before I even got the words out of my mouth."

"Well," Ivy glanced Harleen up and down with a regally masterfully look—as if she was undressing and seeking out the areas that needed the most work. "It's honestly disgustingly easy to outwit the guards in the hospital wings. If you want to get to Edward, all you have to do is gussy up."

Harleen quirked, her pale lips still trembling ever so slightly. "For confidence?"

"Oh Honey," Ivy breathed, crooning over the tiny blonde with green skinned fingers that smoothed her messy hair and carefully traced a sharp fingernail along a skewered line of eyeliner. "Sexual appeal is a female's _only _defense in this world. It's how plants attract pollinating insects. It's how many female insects end up killing their male mates. And it's how you can get anything you want done this way. It's sick. It's sad." And, like the beginning of their conversation, Ivy's smile bloomed into a delightfully sinister smile.

"It's how you'll survive."

* * *

><p><strong>EAN:<strong> Last call...anyone for ONLY character study interviews? Or ONLY story line? Or both? oh god. Or both. (also, ya'all, this is chapter 20, woooooooooo!)


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